


Too Busy Being Yours

by nigellecter



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 42,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7920592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nigel x Mischa in Florence. Immediately follows A Frigid Landscape. </p><p>Mischa / Nigel. Rp between little-lady-lecter and nigellecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mischa never knew just how much she appreciated central air conditioning until they had moved into the small flat in the middle of Florence. Even residing in hotels, she felt like a new person in this intricate world of romance and beauty. When they had finally decided to leave their old home behind, at least for the time being, they had nestled into this cozy, wondrous life in the middle of one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

It wasn’t good for them to be in that old place. Too many ghosts lurked there, whispering and reminding them that too many tragedies lingered in the walls and behind closed doors. The death of their parents, their brother, and the looming walls of the wretched estate where they had almost been eaten alive. Here, they could make a new start. Mischa would take up school again here, when they had the money. Nigel had found work at a local bar that tipped well. Mischa worked in the great library of Florence where she would be trained to archive and document old works and papers. There lives were good, if not busy, and relatively simple as they healed their bodies and minds.

They both had off on the cozy Sunday morning, and Mischa was laying on top of him like a contented cat, playing with his hair as she spoke idly of her new job and how beautiful and old the building was. 

“I know you aren’t a book person,” she teased, placing a gentle kiss to his temple. “But you should come visit me when you have off. You’d be impressed, this place has archives that date back to the city’s founding. I want to show you before we go to the club tonight.“ She rain her fingers through his hair, resting her chin on his chest, peering up at him with childlike curiosity. In the past few months that they had found themselves in this strange place, she felt like she was seeing Nigel clearly for the very first time.

"But…” A coy smile formed on her lips as she crept up to hover just above his mouth, her gaze soft and gentle. Her fingers worked themselves through his, carefully pressing his hand into the mattress, a small laugh bubbling up from her throat that she couldn’t quite contain. She was teasing, perhaps just a little, as she waited there, mere inches away from a tender kiss.

“I think you should _kiss_ _me_ first.”

___

There had been days when a tenacious grip upon his gray matter, too occupied and overwhelmed with past jumble of recollections. Hannibal’s untimely demise had made Nigel to percolate about his own cessation of mortality; his head spun like a broken ferris wheel, sempiternally drawing whirling circles of vortex, pulling him down the endless swamp as he sinks. He suffocates within the muddy, unforgiving layers of ruefulness, regrets, painfully tender explorations of his own brutality and desire, interweaved with loneliness. 

Of course, Mischa had been with him at all times, except when leading their separate lives as life went on; the world was remarkably talented at robbing them of happiness as they have tried their best to dodge all the curveballs and steep ridges and bumps upon their diverging roads. Too much going on to blind him. He carried all the documentation of his scars, all the past mistakes and potent images through all the nerve endings. Compacted within a thick, weathered tome as history of him;  _ as an autobiography.  _

_ A happy personality encompassed with a sad soul, _ it didn’t take too long for Nigel to slip into his usual propensity for violence. Where he once saw empty corridors of their Lithuanian home, he saw both paradoxical  _ distress _ , splattered on the walls of his mind and the thrumming life of the club walls. He missed both so painfully and it would leave him breathless and entrapped upon horrid recollections of unsettling horrificness as he was plucked off a fatal strands of nightmare that would weave into his personality with permanence.   

The historic city of Florence had contained what both of them desired. For Nigel, the bar tipped well and a steady influx of both locals and tourists flocked the establishments like migratory birds. Switching facade when darkness seeped into the old cobblestone walls that still contained multitudes of traces of the past and their new lives, filled with all their glory and imperfections. They still had each other and fully appreciated the fact that they had ability to love themselves. 

They’re pressed like two lovebirds, a stream of light spills forth upon their clothed forms and he squints, through steady breaths as a ring of sweat glistens the defined trapezius of his neck. His back plastered flat as he had felt like swooning into the intense heat, he basks in a compellingly beautiful form of her coalesce along with his tanned form, her gathered nightgown intermingled as he rides out an incomparable sense of satiation shudders through as they melt along each other’s warmth. 

“Perhaps later in the afternoon, there’s a place I want to take you out for lunch before I treat you a drink, a gelato to cap everything off,” he would delve and pour himself into old anatomical drawings, as Hannibal would’ve appreciated the fine craftsmanship and impeccable penmanship. A slight tilt of his jaw sends the contour of his sharp profile to etch with more dramatic contrast. “Certainly, you know fucking well it wouldn’t end with _ just a kiss, darling _ .” With his arm wound around her waist and stroking along the dimple of her spine, his gaze drips with both swallowing desire and radiating softness of affection. 

His eyes grow heavy, not with the unbearable effort of staying open, but with the aching thrill that could be only be defined as growing lust. A chuckle bubbles from deep within his throat, the cavern of his throat purring with low hoarse purr. He could literally feel the expanded vein upon his limbs thrum with each pulsation. Lips slightly part, the space within them yearning with indelible desire as he attempts to mold his atop hers. 

He could easily  _ overpower _ , yet he stays, it’s rather thrilling and more sensual, with more stretch of time as it becomes exquisitely painful yet strangely calming. 

___

_ You absolute tease, _ she thought. Part of her wanted to wait this out, to prove that she was clearly the stronger being of the two. Even so, there was something so intricately delicate about seeing Nigel in such a happy state of mind. While the nightmares hadn’t disappeared completely, they had lessened significantly, and Mischa hadn’t seen him so content with himself in many years. And now, lying comfortably on top of him with a cool breeze drifting through the cozy room, Mischa in turn felt as content as could be.

For a moment, Mischa held very still, the corners of her mouth still upturned in a poorly-concealed grin. Her eyelids fluttered shut, her hand gripping his securely as their lips brushed, soft and tender in the loveliness of their solitude. Everything he had told her sounded  _ wonderful _ , but nothing could quite compare to what they had here, right now, on the bed they so often shared with one another. The day felt bright and whole and brand new, something she relished above all else. They could do whatever they wanted with no interruptions.

“We have time,” she said. She paused before kissing him, unlacing their fingers to place her hand on his chest. She toyed around with the neckline, eyeing him curiously before gently kissing his throat. When she pulled away, she turned her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing like a young girl. “Don’t we? I mean, _ I’m _ not working today…”  _ She _ was surely teasing now, unable to help herself in her giddiness and eagerness for his arms around her. If he was going to be like that, there would certainly be no stopping her from doing the same.

She kissed his jaw, his chest, and finally his lips, parting them only a little so that she could lean further into the kiss as she pleased, heart leaping with delight as her hands eagerly sought his once more.

___

The brutality of the lingering images of nightmares had threaded into more pleasurable recollections he had preserved like most sacred documentations. And memories were wretched things; the pain overwhelmed the happy recollections of them, all three Lecter children winding down together beneath the overhead afternoon sun; Hannibal and Mischa clumped and pressed together against their backs on the large swinging chair, overlooking into a small clearing which would lead into dense woods. Where Nigel’s muddied boots would tread endless impressions, whether bare or with a snowdrift enough to bury half of him. That didn’t deter him from relentlessly bulldozing through the compacted crystals, even when he would catch the most horrid cold that would pass through the other siblings.  

Their position immediately transports him to more better days. Scars continued to stay, although covered by more potent and provocative memories. He wouldn’t be the same person with pink, sensitive flesh which told him he was a survivalist than the one to succumb to any sorts of exhaustive twists of fate. Even when the force itself seems to be overwhelming, vehement and taut as endless sheets of fortified metal, intimidating and expanding as however far it goes. No more hiding in dreams, as memories unfold in exquisite streams. Mischa’s hair rumples and begins to draw rippling waves and it tickles the side of his face and neck. 

Through the mellifluous notes dancing in the streams of dazzling afternoon sun, a wash of calm flares over as he remains most peaceful. No more dark clouds of devastating, cacophonous violence ravaging through their existence as they blanket and mingle within bouncing body heat and light, manifesting into a scatter of brilliant jewels, matching the beatific face of his angel. He’s the fallen angel who switches from light to darkness, burning blazing hot as his heart begins to ready its imminent race. 

As soon as his fingers free, he’s exploring the outer edge where his plastered contours of his body doesn’t reach. A slithering brush, the most faintest to not break through the gossamer of her alabaster skin. “All the time in the fucking world. The world is not a fucking fishbowl. I’m looking through and reflecting nothing but an endless stretch of sky.” There are so many things they hadn’t done, as they immersed into their own worlds with their professions. Times like these, he had yearned to persevere. The clutch of lightness, a force greater than his innate darkness. 

A slightest poke upon the crackling flame slowly agglomerates into a gentle expansion, as the orange glow tinges more of his defined facial features. Kiss which turns into slow kindle of fire into a lump of fire churning his insides. Disintegrating the horrid memories into a whirl of spinning brightness. He’s the active participant of this particularly uplifting composition, as their fine-tuned instruments hone around each other,  _ nothing else.  _


	2. Chapter 2

Melting against him, Mischa buried her face in his neck, smiling as she pulled herself ever closer as her body seemed to melt in and around his form.  Sleepy and mellow, she sighed and nibbled on his ear, running her hand across his chest, pressing herself against him gently and deliberately. Smoothing back his hair, Mischa trailed gentle kisses across his jaw, before gently reaching his lips once more.  Moving to deepen the kiss, she tightened her grip around him with her legs, positioning herself slightly upright to better reach him with her longing mouth. The world was full of wonders, and Mischa swore that Nigel was among them, carefully handpicked by the earth itself as something for all life to behold.

And he was hers, so undoubtedly that they had survived every wicked act of fate that sent them hurtling into horror and despair. Against all odds, they were born survivors in a world that was destined to rip them apart. This was cherishing their existence, celebrating their love and unwillingness to be snuffed out like forgotten candles in the night. Whether it be devotion, the bliss of codependency that would perhaps haunt them in their later years, or something else entirely, it was  _ something _ that Mischa wouldn’t trade for the world.

“You don’t have to be such a stranger,” she murmured, giving him a lopsided grin. She pressed her lips to his jaw once again, his skin flushed and warm against her gentle touch. Overall, Mischa was certain that she never wanted this to end as long as the lazy day was there to encase them in its gentle warmth.

___

The endless stream spilling forth in such an angelic manner continues to knock his vessel.  _ No more fevered heat and petrification of the nightmares _ ,  _ no more of the oppressive silence that hung like clumps of gloomy clouds, soon emitting thunderous roar upon his tympanums _ . Like having an illuminated sleep, his core holds the essence of his most treasured emotions. His most safeguarded bundle of unadulterated recollections buried deep within the den of his subconsciousness brims more to the rippling surface, being replaced by their melding flesh and Mischa’s sleepwalk upon his heated skin. All the others would disintegrate and he wouldn’t even sing a requiem for them; what mattered the most had been their existence, here and now. As his body sings in aria. as he sinks in blurring waves. Lips agape, at the beginning steps of _ inebriation _ as it would soon, turn into a  _ delicious agony _ as he meets her with eagerness. 

Newly etched scars blooming upon their flesh, adding a whole another dimension, his adventurous spirit about to roam around the new terrain. Arms become the most enthusiastic explorers. An inevitable  _ eradication _ of his inhibitions as greedy fingers dig into her flesh. Mischa’s dazzling form, which had been beautifully obscured and edges blended along the reverberating colors look more like a stark grayscale photo, that had been aged exceptionally well. He wonders what kind of new story they will begin to outline, if they hadn’t already done so. A strange elixir of desire and desperation overwhelms his frantic zealousness. 

They had been tainted repeatedly enough with his own salty scalding tears that have etched through skin, motoring tremor acting as a catalyst for his percolated explosion. Too potent and breathless a memory to be ever forgotten. As a lingering smudge of graphite upon a coarse paper, they had a tendency to linger. This particular euphoria lingers as if he had been trippy with high from coke. The energy brews and bubbles over as abstract shapes, both beating and caressing wickedly along the gentle ridges of his muscles. No matter how others perceived him as, a relentless and vehement blazing trail of wildfire no one dared to step against, there would be no stopping this. Not when this exquisiteness transforms them into the sea sparkling in the sunlight, sinking into indulgence of both their bodies and minds. 

“A stranger to your newly healed body,” ghost of a smirk upturns his lips in a faint smear before one of his most rare, wanton purr echoes through the cavern of his throat. A slow advance after such a lingering stalemate is desirable, yet he wants more than the feathery touch of hers. “I want to  _ burn _ , light me with your fire, instead of those fucking remnants of incoherency and helplessness, I want it all. The lasciviousness and tenderness.” 

Wanting to capture Mischa’s lips in an invading kiss, he draws her as a strong arm winds around her narrow waist as if he’s plundering her away. Slithering his lower limbs in an entrapment, the mimicry of the intimacy soon to be morphed into something entirely else. 

___

_ Her newly healed body. _ Mischa couldn’t remember the last time she could look in the mirror and not cringe, especially with the new scars that marred her ankles and wrists. Always a thin girl with sickly pale skin like plaster or glue, Mischa’s skin was not something she held in high regard, especially not after the recent events. The ropes had cut her so badly, that she actually looked like she lived with an abusive husband who gripped her too tightly, and took to wearing long sleeves whenever they went out together as to not raise false suspicion. Wrapped in Nigel’s arms, Mischa spared a glance to her tattered skin. Perhaps she was healed, her body proving once again that it wouldn’t allow her to simply give in to the embrace of inescapable mortality. She merely did not appreciate the ugly reminders.

In her frustration, she found herself ripping aside his shirt, her expression neutral as her teeth found her lower lip, wanting to simply lose herself in him as she did that often surpassed a physical level. She kissed him feverishly, (almost angrily, as her scarred arms found themselves clutching his body and fighting to rip off his clothing that remained) hungrily, even, feeling frustrated at herself and her dammed skin for its hideous reminders that she knew would be best to set aside. It didn’t  _ matter. _ They loved one another, in all their fucked-up and tender glory that they strived to bring some shred of normalcy to heed the bitterness that lay underneath.

She clutched his shoulders tightly, her body tense with want and bitter frustration, averting her eyes from the sight of her arms like they contained an ugly secret only she was aware of.  It didn’t matter,  _ it didn’t matter. Nothing except  _ this  _ mattered at-fucking-all. _

“Always, my dear,” she murmured, breathy and warm as she pressed herself closer still. She guided his hand to her chest, closing her eyes as his fingers found the expanse of skin that lay uncovered by her nightwear.

___

To Nigel, Mischa looked like one of those delicate, yet strikingly beautiful and strong ballerinas - a total composure in the midst of torrent, carrying herself with self-assuredness, despite all their haunting memories. Comprised with the most delightful of pretexts of pale and soft tint, he was entranced in not only the grace and charm she carried with  _ exuberance _ , but her tenacious  _ virtuosity _ and  _ human condition _ . Like the painter Degas, he longed to capture the  _ classical beauty _ and  _ modern realism _ . Slowly and painstakingly. His fingertips become the bristle brush;  _ numbing _ ,  _ persistent _ with  _ effectual caress _ . His own distinctive energy carried forth in his unique drawing of her. 

Even more so than the firing synapses of the familiar drugs he sought after, he could feel the new intensity bubble up like a wild animal’s pants. A steady flow engulfing his chest, it would resemble his own incapacitating wound from before - he was well aware and it acted like the gateway to his past, filled with bundled hatred directed both of their captors and his own incapabilities to stop that atrocity from taking place. His own defiance and ravaged defence failing to coagulate and prevent from other infections to prod at his crumbling pensive. Even when Mischa drips with darkness and pain in her beautiful eyes lingers, he would be ever bright with  _ love _ and  _ grace _ . It didn’t deter him from loving her any less. 

She would be the only one who would be able to dissect him further, as he splays and flays open for her to prod into. Giving the life back as he bleeds open and despite all the awful epiphany of her marred flesh, he would still remain in that trace of mold, awaiting her presence. Like a rolling thunder, yet he doesn’t scream out. It beats words as his form manifests itself into a coiled rattlesnake ready to take hibernation; wrapped around each other, basking in the intensifying warmth. Melting away in a sweeping splash, interspersed with desperate yearning and potent bundle of arousal gathered like a column of air powerful enough to project a bullet. 

With his exposed flesh radiating with tenderness and charged warmth, none of the outside world exists. No gelato, club… No matter how many icicles of cold seeped through every follicle and left the arctic chill through his spine, how herculean the task of truly being hypnotic and mesmerized in a space they share had became; through  _ wrath _ and  _ tears _ , uncontrollable eruption of emotions and letting his connection sever with the tangible world, he would always chase her and offer himself to be a protector.

A long pant as lungs squeeze for desperation, he languidly and idly circles around her breast, clutching it before his other hand sweeps her nightgown off. “You shouldn’t be appalled by the marks, you’re greater than that. A mere fucking sordid reminder of our triumph,”  _ we have prevailed _ . A bare whisper against the crook of her slender neck as her scents, of the fresh summer and blossoming Lithuanian landscape etches through his mind. 


	3. Chapter 3

No, they were no longer destitute, nor perhaps had they ever been, but it lingered. Hell, every damn thing lingered like an irksome summer cold that left her eyes running and her mouth like sandpaper. Nothing was ever calm enough to simply learn and live and move forward without the bitter reminder that it would always change her, for better or for worse, but always that inevitable  _ change _ that she so dreaded. They both had been branded, marked, and burned by wounds, invisible and not, that were nothing but simple  _ reminders.  _ Ticks in the brain that wouldn’t go away even if their bodies had healed. Mischa was not a weak girl, and Nigel was strong as molded iron. But she hated, no,  _ loathed _ reminders that she could no longer be bothered with. She  _ would _ be above and beyond what made her weak, and mold herself around the iron core they had forged together. In time, she thought. All in time.

Now, she was undressing him, undressing herself, hands steady and strong as she kissed him and rocked herself against him, breathing heavy sighs and gentle moans that formed themselves in his name. Sunrise through the open window made her hair shine like golden starlight, warm against her back and soon, warm hanging from her head as she gripped his shoulders, panting and sighing and not thinking at all. She urged him to touch her, to hold her and to  _ kiss her _ , perhaps rougher than usual…perhaps rougher than she would have liked. But if she was angry, if what she felt was to be described as a bitter anger at herself and at invisible wounds that bubbled to the surface of her skin, then she would heal and forget and lose herself at her own will.

“I don’t…I don’t  _ want them  _ there…” She was truly trying to hold a conversation and it was quickly proving difficult as her chest rose and fell with each heaving breath. “He doesn’t get to mark me that way…just  _ kiss me, _ ” she insisted. And before he could reply, she granted her own request.

___

Like the galaxies finding itself back no matter what kind of chasm rattles through the infinite vastness, they would always end up in each other’s arms, no matter what. As he immerses in the sky, Mischa’s radiance exudes like the expansive, boundless stretch upon his yearning fingertips. Despite the darkness and horrible things that would separate them, they will accept the savageness and violence and wouldn’t try to justify it beyond what it has done to them. 

They’re mess of  _ contradictions _ . A paradoxical existence; elegant yet wild, clever yet impulsive. They’re the sunrise and sunset combined. He is the ocean, magnificent and rich. Never standstill and constantly moving as it encompasses all things beneficial and detrimental. Through his duplicity of calmness and tranquility, he’s always bubbling with bodement. There’s no escaping his undertow as the tumultuous core always too eager to consume her whole. 

Even when Mischa, whether she embodies the effervescent sun or enigmatic moon etching multitudes of undulations upon his edges, he devoured her whole, with a certain dangerousness attached to it as well. So many times they had crossed paths, parted with bitter sorrow farewells as his pores had oozed with unrestrained emotions, pouring like the rain running down the windshield obscuring his projection. So many times he had thrown himself, completely alone as his broken vessel spilled every moisture there is. No more of broken heart as chambers had wrung so tight. 

Their flesh and battered mind had seen better days, their plastered body transforms into a quintessential spread of nebula; its fluorescence so wide as it trembles with numerous hues and intensity. And like a sea, he completely offers himself to her. Garments shed, his diaphragm sings with both growl and desire. The preexisting mark soon covered by his broad expanse of heated palm and possessive fingers. Muscles pull and stretch as he fades out, already breathing heavy with audible hint of pleasure. Fire in his veins, calamitous like aneurysm causing a hemorrhage. 

“Fucking cherish them, accept the fact that they’re there. We live in a world of fragility and finite furor.”  _ Survivors _ . He could literally hear his nails dig into her flesh as the little exhilaration of breath starts to aggravate him even more. Arms dissipate in the radiance of her arched back as they ripple, Reigning in his instincts as he sinks further into coalescence. 

___

Masking her face was a thin film of sweat, flushing her cheeks and causing thin strands of hair to stick to her face, little sensations she couldn’t feel at all as a harsh cry emitted from her lips. All at once, ecstatic delight turned her veins to pleasant sparks and jolts of warmth and electricity, before she collapsed on top of him, eyes closed against his warm chest. Feeling sleepy, Mischa sighed in satisfaction, rolling back her shoulders where she felt stiff. She thought about what he had said about the ugly scars that molted her arms. After gently kissing his cheek, she sat beside him as she pulled her shirt over her torso.

“You have to understand that the harm he caused me is more than just an ugly scar or some wrongful reminder of the past. I’m branded, now. I was used as a toy, as an object to get to you because I’m small, thin, and a woman. And now I’m just another sob story. People will know, Nigel. And whether they think it’s you or not, people see abused women as either pitiful creatures, or stupid animals who didn’t know what they were getting into. It changes when you’re one of us…everything changes. He had that bastard Carlo use a knife on me and I couldn’t do anything about it. He made comments about my body. Men like him love it when women like me are placed into helpless positions.”

Mischa felt vaguely sick, her stomach rolling and flipping unpleasantly. She ran her fingers through her hair in thought, trying to control the small tremors in her hands. Her small, scar-riddled hands. The memory of intense pain flashed through her mind, and she quickly shoved it away.  

“It’s just…it’s just why it’s harder for me to see these markings as triumphs. I feel so visible. Even when I’m covered, it just reminds me that I’m trying to hide them so that I don’t become a quiet story, or some thought in somebody’s head.” She looked at him, his tender, wandering eyes that swam with such fiery compassion and dedication, hoping that he understood.

___

Through the effervescent petals still pulsated radiantly and outwardly like a rapid ripple from the  _ perturbation _ , colors become _ hazy distinctions, _ boundaries of their unification wears thin. They’re the only recollections of violence, nothing more. His logical brain surely registers this fine, yet the memory becomes elastic, stretching thin and snapping open as he still recalls the taser’s merciless discharge of unconsciousness as his already addled mind sinks further into an inescapable realm. The release is both  _ blood-chilling  _ and  _ indefinite _ . Long-suppressed affection vivifying with the  _ perfect silence, _ yet his brain swirls with iridescent colors. As he subjugates into the rhythmic rolling, perpetrated by the spilling bath of sunbeam, growing even more intense along with the certainty that he would be Mischa’s  _ mentor _ in her transformation. 

He would shut the fucking door without the handle, of course, he’d have no power in governing what the others thought. Perhaps he was only coming with his own skewed and unreliable consensus of his own familiarity turning into something he had so innately accepted. After all, it was the associations that had haunted him, not the act of violence itself. He would always plunge into the cold darkness, that looming shadow that always followed him like a shortening fuse. “Then I’ll try my despicable hardest to let them see beyond the  _ wrecked carapace. _ ” Thick-skinned by nature, he wasn’t certainly going to make a habit of entertaining outlandish notions affect him more than the actual scrutinization. 

It would leave him in  _ a chilling despair. _ The stereotypical conformity of the society was strikingly dark and if not, riddled with  _ ominous premonitions _ . Armored by a feeling of unconcealed abhorrence when it came to laying a hand on a woman. It continues to  _ niggle at his conscience _ . _ If people could see such bitter hardships and experiences no one would ever have to endure _ . 

The things he couldn’t stand the most beside every single fucking judging pair of eyes was in fact that she was reducing herself as though she were a woman of bitter experience; such markings had their own tenacious cling, aggravated by the degradation of the flesh. “Whatever the fuck you do, there’s always gonna be that label attached to you, we are not entirely free from them. So why not go the opposite path and make yourself entirely visible? That’s why I have suggested we let it unfold. No more of that blood and flesh. All those physical remnants excreted through it all within _ the night _ .”  


	4. Chapter 4

Despite her deep-rooted horror at herself and the skin she bore, perhaps Nigel was right. It wasn’t so much shame as it was disgust, anger, and an entire array of emotions that were unidentifiable. Whatever she bore, it wasn’t a reflection in of herself. She knew that, and so did he. The long, white tank-top decorated in black stars and a silver moon was something she had found here in Florence, something she bought herself while well-aware she may never be able to wear it with confidence, but nonetheless she would find it suiting for their anticipated walk around the city. Pulling on a pair of black jeans, she stood and looked herself up and down in the mirror. It was something she was used to wearing, typically more comfortable in more conservative wear. But it felt fitting. Where they were, what they had become…Mischa was willing to change for the better, even if it meant combating instinctual fear.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. She turned to look at Nigel, holding her exposed arms half-extended at her waist. She felt strangely free in the comfortable clothing. Comfortable clothing that looked nice. “I won’t let it consume me. In the mean time…” She gave him a small smile. “Maybe you should get dressed, eh? I’m sure the whole city would  _ adore _ seeing you naked, but I like to keep that sight reserved for myself if you don’t mind.” She picked up one of his shirts and playfully threw it at him, running a wooden brush through her long hair. She had let it grow down to her waist. It was one of those little things that kept her feeling human, an expression of outside beauty that grounded her just a little more.

“You better bet I’m taking you shopping,” she said as she brushed out her hair. She eyed him through the mirror, biting back a grin. “You need more clothes. Badly. I’m not letting you wear that same shirt until you die. Don’t complain, okay?”

___

They wouldn’t be entirely free from the noisy conversations emanating from the terraces and porticos, breaking through the sound of shot glasses clinking and the ruckus. They had an  _ exceptional _ tendency to hack into their extremely profound tidal waves and earthquakes beneath the skin. They would overrule the  _ unpredictability _ and  _ seriousness _ of their condition, an urgent consultation upon their mental capacity as they indulged in enough of deprecating  _ introspection _ . Even when his nonchalance and impassive demeanor towards the others had resisted that very illness that continued to threaten their sanity, he  _ persisted _ , as if those people were merely a strain of mental abnormality lurking beneath the surface of their bloodline. 

“Of course I’m always fucking right. We had bitten every fucking bullet that came our way, even bared to watch you disappear behind the multitudes of infinite veil.” When everything became too burdensome, the weight settling within his heart became too  _ unbearable _ and disturbing questions rose like all-consuming tsunami, he had consulted the night sky in his seemingly vacant gaze and contained his rage. He’d remember that  _ without the stars to grace the vastness, there would be an empty sky. _ A fucking void, widening further as the world had felt empty. The thought left him  _ strangely pacified.  _

Indulging in the last bit of his clean, sharp lines of a dancer’s physique, his body now marked an endless traces of shooting stars and comets, ranging in different sizes. Very much meant to belong there as they seem. With the corner of his lips stretching in languid manner, he snatches the shirt, the very one he had bought in a hole-in-the-wall secondhand shop. It had contained a reminescenting memory of his brother; particularly, the fine, gradient windowpane pattern he would make fun of as being a tablecloth. 

Although it was fraying at the tail and the fabric suffered from years of use, like  _ that faded recollections of the siblings _ , it held a staggering importance. “Shopping,” he merely repeats, masking a exasperated sigh as he leaves the shirt open in front, while he plucks himself out of the bed like a sleepwalker. Lips ajar with a lingering thread of heat escaping through the exposed core, the last comment serves to be a fleeting cool hand on his forehead when he would run feverous. It would offer them a sense of real escape, albeit  _ ephemeral _ . 

“Must you serve me a fucking suffering? You know how much I abhor shopping.” Like the cold of late winter stubbornly lingering, his rooted feet refuse to leave his premise of a safe haven. But he knows, he would give in to the pleasantries of the thriving exuberance of the city, as the past intermingled with the modern. With their curiosity and astonishment towards the city, he would supposedly melt into the throng and let the threaded emotions unfurl further. “I promised that gelato, so might as well as I entertain you as an escort.”   

___

Feeling lighter, Mischa soaked in the light mood, allowing her spirits to be lifted, for her body to stop weighing down so heavily, eager to sink beneath the ground and lie among the dirt for the rest of her days. As she pulled the comb through her long hair, she couldn’t help but eye Nigel in the mirror, his hair still messy and ruffled from before. She laughed, knowing all too well he wouldn’t be bothered with fixing it. Truly, she loved Nigel for being so carefree and helping her become the same; living life under a veil of rigidity was only hurting her, and their new life allowed for more freedoms. It was truly an art form, balancing work and free time and combating her wretched anxiety and bouts of sadness that often came with little warning.  _ It all proved to be worth it. Every, single written line in the story of us. All of it was worth the struggle just to be here. _

She only wished Hannibal were here too.

“Yes, Nigel,” she said. Still biting back a smile, she tied her long bangs back out of her eyes, pleased with her appearance for the first time in many years. “You don’t have to be such a baby about it. This is the first day off we have in weeks and I’d like to at least make good use of it…in more ways than just making love.” Her face broke, and her face crinkled into a playful smile. “You never know. You might not mind it so much. What’s that saying…’clothes make the man’? Something like that?”

The playful banter was like a rush of warm water over her skin, calming her, soothing her rigid muscles and aching of the heart. She stood, tilting her head before placing a gentle kiss to his mouth, holding his cheeks in her scar-riddled hands. Just like that, with skin touching skin and their faces only inches apart, she stood contented. If they were to die, just like this, in this very room, Mischa would be perfectly content embracing the darkness with one final memory of a tender kiss and a gentle laugh.

“It’s really not that bad,” she said. She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. “I promise. You can trust me, right?”

___

How could he ever resist the moments like this? The weighty thought of them having persevered through like the survivors in the wilderness becoming another permanent fixture upon the  _ epic, herculean tale _ that would live with their legacy.  _ Weren’t they pushed towards the edges of the cliff, face-to-face, as their ceasing mortality threatened to part their obstinate souls as they helplessly watches each other’s heart beating solely for them? _ Such vulnerability and raw emotions he let them consume him whole and let that wretched recollection transfigure into the profound drive that would be his inextinguishable fuel. Even when he reduces into _ incorporeal carbon _ and  _ stardust _ as his body emitted multitudes of percussions through battered flesh and protruded veins, his flame had persisted, with such intensity and will to press on. Not only flame needed air to be resolutely cataclysmic, he needed a kindle to fuel him further.  

They were interconnected, not only through the shared blood and flesh and through that, he feels  _ empowered _ ; he doesn’t see it as a burden with Hannibal’s absence, but another challenge he needs to conquer and loot and make his own. He wonders if he could ever survive another separation. 

A frozen fear  _ smoldering _ into a hopeful promise and a premise of their triumphant future.  _ Brighter than shooting star and inevitably determined like a comet.  _ Not only the barren desolate landscape that had sunk his already glum mood, but this particular indefinite moment served like a mantra; battered flesh blooming like radiating flower petals. The names that had burned through his flesh and made blood within his veins boil now merely reduce to be a poignant chapter they had just closed shut. The coursing pain and indescribable brim of emotions ebb like a series of waves from the tranquil ocean, even more so as the shared experience metamorphoses into the admission of love and the imprints of her hands on his cheeks. His less than well put-together and tousled hair sends the corner of his own lips to quirk up. Appeased and entertained. How uncomplicated it is to crack his usual smile and enjoy the domesticity of it all. 

“Planning to make a fucking  _ dapper _ of a man within a lifetime rebel? In that regard, one of my most treasured and form-fitting leather jacket is in a fucking ruin.” Slipping on his rumpled jeans, he could still scent the warm  _ radiance  _ along with sweetness and slight note of bitterness. All of the  _ distress _ seem to melt within the veins as the gossamer caress of her plump lips mold into his, through the shared breaths, all the afflictions take its drowning plunge. Through consumption of her as her eternal light compels him in its beauty, he would retain his own and let it alleviate the dark thoughts. 

“I believe there’s a saying if a man loves a woman’s soul, he’ll end up loving only one woman,” looking down with a ghost of the previous smile still etched upon his copper skin, he zips up his jeans and brings Mischa’s hand down to the tail of his unbuttoned shirt. “Touche, I’m fucking bound to lose.”


	5. Chapter 5

Truly, Mischa could take him into her arms all over again and make love like shooting stars. But they had many things to do of varying importance, and she wanted to save it for moments that could be appreciated best. Not so long ago, she never would have dreamed to know such a strange state of mind of such bliss and yet such fear that this could one day shatter into a thousand pieces all over again. Like a rapid comet in a dusty atmosphere, they were unpredictable and flying over uncertain ground even within the safety of their new home. And how strange was she to find herself feeling so secure. She placed her fingers under his chin, gently tilting his chin so that he was looking her straight in the eye. Playfulness dripping from her dark eyes, she gave his nose a gentle tap with pursed lips

“I believe even the most wild of rebels such as yourself are capable of cleaning up quite nicely. And I know. I’ve been eyeing that wretched piece of clothing for weeks. I know you love it but I think we can find you a new one without a whole lot of fuss. If  _ you _ don’t make it a big fuss, that is…”

Mischa stood again, turning her back to him so that she could tie a small ribbon into her hair, a long-lasting tradition she had upheld since childhood. Where once her mother had performed the simple task for her, the duty had been transfered to Hannibal and then finally done by herself. It was like a token to his name, as simple and meaningless as it may have appeared. As she turned back around, Nigel’s hand on her wrist, she felt herself grow red for the first time in many years. Simple, flushed embarrassment was not something she was used to, certainly not in his presence, and it made her heart jump a beat in surprise. What he said was simple and maybe just a bit cheeky, and yet her whole being reacted to the words like a rush of warm water over bare skin.

“And how lucky is she,” Mischa said quietly, continuing his statement, “To have bared her soul and be so loved in return.” Her hand flattened against his skin, pure, white hot sunlight rushing through the touch. Mischas lips parted in a silent command to make love to her then and now, but she knew there were  _ places to be _ that did not include Nigel’s bed.  _ But soon, _ she thought. Soon. For now, she offered him a smile, a quiet promise that this would continue when time would allow, even if she so ached for it to be  _ now. _

“You  _ are _ coming with me,” she warned. “And by God’s name, Nigel, you are going to like it.”

___

If he were to be hurtled into space and his body continued to  _ perpetually _ stretch and tangle until he reduces into a wayward traveler of the galaxy with incoherent scatter of dust,  _ he would _ . If he could lay here, immobile and forever chained, never be able to set another footstep upon the world along with the dazzling sunshine basking their small apartment to reduce their surroundings into the  _ fantastical fairy tale _ , he would sink into it with ad infinitum. Her presence itself is the words that get  _ tangled _ , hopelessly lost inside him as they become the silhouette of his spoken poetry. An aficionado upon the light and darkness which continues to coalesce into one, as it continues to pervade through his veins. 

Though some of the things are lost and he would be the slaves of the defunct commemoration, the  _ shared vessel _ and  _ reflection _ as the eyes still embody and pierce with intensity, the nose once had explored both the brutality and desire as he indulged in beauty and savagery, and these lungs that once inhaled his breaths becomes a permanent shrine. 

“I’m under the impression that you have already eyed a  _ particularly spectacular _ outfit you wish to encase myself in. Can’t fucking promise you I’ll even like it or execrate with casual rejection.” His unreadable expression etches with something between a  _ marveled anticipation _ and  _ feigned adulation _ . 

He knew the importance of her gesture, how ceremonial in the regard to serve both of their mother and brother. A veneration upon their existence amongst them even after their souls had been plucked off into the otherworld as the fire from the fireplace would glow with soundless agitation. As if the depth of his strength had been fortified with germane assurance. 

“Yes, my lady, you’re the  _ fucking _ beautiful soul I’ve been falling for since you know when.” A mischievous roll of eyes follows as he squeezes Mischa’s behind as he passes, the expectant spark brought upon by the lingering touch. 

“Where else would I fucking go?” Even in the midst of inquietude and solicitude, he’d get lost in the light within her, the festivity upon the monochromatic world. “If I can’t avoid it, might as well as I tolerate it with some trepidation.” His arm coil like a constrictor, as he gives a gentle, yet firm pull towards his side. 

___

Mischa was satisfied with that particular response. As her bare feet padded across the apartment to grab her shoes and small purse, she found herself wondering if this is what was meant to be. Perhaps, even if some terrible tragedy were to strike them here and now, a tornado, a shooting, or some other horrid act of violence and destruction, she could at least be reassured that she was at a place in her life where she felt as content as one could be. As Nigel dressed, she found herself eagerly waiting to embrace the day instead of shying away from the rising sun, ready to take his hand and feel the bustle of the city roar around her like a tidal wave of sound and iridescent life.

Mischa wasted no time. She practically dragged Nigel out of their apartment and down the stairs, taking two at a time as she laughed about how he was  _ going to love it _ and how  _ it won’t be that bad! _ They were so young and free and to the outside world, nothing more or less than two lovers taking on the world for the first time. And what better wonder of the world to do it than Florence, Italy? It was a thriving city, filled to the brim with life and culture and the most beautiful architecture Mischa had ever seen. Not even Vilnius, Lithuania, with its castles and old, sleepy towns could compare to being right in the heart of one of the most romantic cities in the world.

They found a stretch of shops close by, some far too expensive for Mischa’s taste, while others that were just right for their financial situation. Almost at once, Mischa spotted a small store that specialized in Italian fashion. Pulling him by the hand, she urged him towards the men’s section, finding everything from leather jackets (to which she insisted he tried, as he was certainly a work of art encased in leather) to graphic t-shirts and jeans. One in particular spelled out “Fuck you, you fucking fuck” in English and Mischa all about toppled over from embarrassed laughter.

“You should buy it,” she insisted, pointing at the particular shirt that essentially spelled out Nigel’s personality. She smiled and drifted over to the women’s section, biting her lip at the leather jeans and jackets, vastly different style from what she was so used to wearing. She realized they  _ were _ going to a club tonight, at Nigel’s insistence of course, and didn’t know what she “should” wear as to not look completely ridiculous.

___

Even when the fate personified sends a premonition of sharp pains as he swims through the bundles of  _ hurtling starlight _ , multitudes of raining arrows enough to block the sun as brave Spartan soldiers met their demise, their excursion towards the thriving city center seem to embellish with tiny sparkles of pearls, as radiant as the  _ thriving square _ . He wouldn’t be entirely free from the tightened  _ grasp _ and its potent  _ imageries _ , and even when he’s left as a displayed insect upon the battlefield to end up as a trophy upon the victorious enemies as he had dreamed multiple times, the universe seemed to cancel each other out in  _ benignness _ , albeit indifferent. 

Mischa seemed to embroider their shared history with fanciful details which had immediately suffocated that lingering turpitude.  _ Carefree and remarkably beautiful like a blossoming petal. _ His oxfords seem to glide through the stairs without his distinctive clicking sound or even a peep, as his long stride smoothly moves him like a sighing wind between petals of cherry blossom. Amidst all the throes of macabre images of  _ Vanitas _ ; all the emptiness associated with worthless nature of materialistic debauchery that ends up to be burning candle at both ends as he had been an embodiment of that philosophy which many deemed  _ covetous _ and  _ wicked _ , paradoxically, he finds the life stretch upon the cobblestone like rows of unending starlight shining brighter than the neon sign as their skin glows. It seems so intangible, maybe he’s afraid to touch it for the stars are out of his reach. 

The most halcyon way to spend the time with his heart’s content - never losing the sight of her that his blissful happiness only required only few things. He cannot think to attain his levity without Mischa’s laughter and his own pounding heart of joy. Perhaps it really wasn’t that bad, as his existence  _ coalesces _ entirely with his surroundings; possibly evolving himself into that great art of life. The world seem to reduce in organic shapes of the permeating and blending light upon the seeped history beneath the ridges and curves of the masonry. 

As the gravity seem to shift among the small expanse of the store, he’s immediately lulled in a  _ hypnotization _ . The leather jacket he wears in Mischa’s stubborn insistence fits him like a glove and although it’s a bit stiff at the arms, it reflects his previous one that had suffered a horrendous fate beneath Matthias and Carlos brothers. “I’m already fucking onto it.” With a crack of amusement etched cheek to cheek, it barely takes five more minutes to compile all the necessary garments onto the counter; mostly in  _ monochromatic _ darks with a pop of color. Too tight,  _ accentuating _ down to the finest dip of his musculature. In his seldom light and good-natured mood as if spellbound, he’s whirled into women’s section as he looks for the suitable garment for Mischa. 

“How about this one?” Fingers smoothing over the ruffled and pleated surface of the dress, he holds up the dress with both of his hands and holds it against Mischa’s slender frame. It’s an off-shoulder ivory dress with a taste and he’s already onto the jewelry counter in the back, with a firm hand pushing her towards the dressing room. 


	6. Chapter 6

Mischa realized that at a certain point during their trip, they had made quite the scene in the little shop; they had been laughing, bantering, and at one point Mischa had picked up a shirt and hurled it in Nigel’s direction, much to the dismay of the shop owner. It was ridiculous, and Mischa felt so  _ young _ , like the weight of a thousand world had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. When they had settled, Mischa accepted the garment from Nigel’s hands with a grimace. Just by holding it up, it seemed so  _ small _ . Beautiful and soft, she ran her fingers over the fabric, giving it a long, careful look; it was pretty, and in her favorite color, too,  _ but did it really have to be so tiny? _

Before Mischa could offer protest, Nigel was pushing her towards the dressing room, refusing to hear a single world until she, at the very least, tried it on. It took some squirming and a lot of pulling and smoothing out, but once it was on, it fit her small frame almost perfectly. She turned around, grimacing at how every bend and curve of her body was now made visible by the dress. It was like being draped in opaque cling wrap. But it had this certain loveliness to it, classy and an overall  _ prettiness _ despite it being tight. She willed herself to smile, before walking out of the dressing room in her bare feet, brushing herself off as she extended her arms, laughing as Nigel turned to look at her.

“It’s beautiful. And it fits me perfectly. I can  _ breathe _ in it, which is a nice…surprise. But is it supposed to look so tight?”

She turned around, showing him the full 360 of how nicely the dress fit. She traced her fingers down her side, tugging gently at the fabric that heeded little give. She would admit, she did feel beautiful. Beautiful and… _ exposed. _ But beautiful nonetheless. They almost looked silly, standing so close to one another. He was ever beautiful no matter what he worse (or didn’t wear), but the dress had certainly given Mischa a one-up on him this time. 

“I don’t know,” she said finally, laughing a little despite herself. She had a feeling that no matter what her final say was on the garment, Nigel would end up buying it for her anyway. “What do you think? Is it too expensive?”

___

He’s the personification and an epitome of a whirlwind; not the characteristic one with destructive properties, but more of an invocation of  _ excitement _ . The whole experience feels like the caress of cool air of the spring upon being inside the stuffy apartment - things weren’t like when they had been in the States and he really appreciated lots of the easily accessible and  _ ubiquitous _ things he hadn’t care to appreciate before. It’s like a sweeping brush over his skin as each fiber had tickled him in his sensitive areas. He shudders with something that wasn’t  _ arousal _ ; rather, it was a feeling that stimulated something deep in his very core that had been repressed through the months of their recovery. Passing through like the refreshing trickle of a sun-shower. The silence of woeful gasps, failing to lift from its  _ disconsolate _ state of desolation only worsened by their  _ commiseration _ , now having been bathed with such ebullient jubilancy. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fucking spectacular, I can already imagine you rocking that body,” with a cock of his head and a dipping smile plastered onto his face as if it had been permanently painted on, he enters just behind her with a gentle push along her dimple. Around the curve of his forearm lays a few different colored jeans and slim-fitting trousers, definitely intended for the club attire and his work. Too tight around his hips and thighs as he struggles with the material with almost little to no give. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s a bodycon, but still, it’s elegant and I’m fucking enchantedly benumbed by celestiality of your presence, m’lady.” In the midst of slipping on the jeans and leaving the flier wide open as he  _ mesmerizingly _ gazes into the peerless convention of a beautiful young woman; the sole object of his desire, not only  _ raw _ and  _ carnal _ , but the epitome of overwhelming reveration, unfathomable as he pacifies that sensation. 

“No amount of fucking money could prevent me from encasing you in that fine material, you should wear it out.” Adjusting the little strap beneath the shoulder ruffle and finally wiggling his hips into a pair of leather-like jeans with metallic wash to them, he finds the price tag hidden beneath the inner fabric and gets a glimpse of the intrinsic value; _ two fucking hundred euros _ . Well, along with all of his clothes, the sum wouldn’t break his fucking checking account and his last paycheck - he’s thankful that they had decided to stay put, with each other as their sole company. 

After clasping his hands against hers yet again, he’s already set in stone about looking through the tastefully displayed clutches behind the glass case. Against the owner’s disapproval and horror, Nigel’s the last person to be stumped in the midst of the store as he rummages through the stacks like a reckless tornado with a determined intention; to wreck the store in search for only the perfection, regardless of prices or the other’s scrutinizing glances. 

___

_ Always the charmer, _ she thought. She bit her lip and squeezed his hands, stealing a quick peck to his cheek before he went off to change. There was something so warm about him, and standing in the strange shop, in such a strange city in an even  _ stranger _ country, it all felt so comforting and real. It didn’t exactly change the way she felt about her wearing the dress (she loved it, she really did, but it remained such an alien feeling to be wearing it), but hearing the words come from his lips, the only words that would ever matter coming from any person in the world, made her feel safe. She stood there for just a moment in time, watching him make his way ever so gracefully across the shop, opening her mouth as if wanting to say something. But she didn’t. She just smiled as the shop owner rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, darling. I think you look beautiful.” She said this very simply, as if stating a common fact.  _ And he was _ . Like some sort of beautiful, wounded animal, Nigel’s darker clothing seemed to cover him in a shadow, making him look striking and commanding. Her mouth upturned into a smile.  _ Beautiful. Absolutely so.  _ Nigel cleaned up so nice, it was truly a transformation on his part. There were times where the scruffy, rough young boy from her childhood came out in the silliest and heartwarming of ways, and times where she found it hard to believe this  _ man _ was once playing in the mud and trying to boss his brother around while they played outside. Her mind began to wander as she briefly imagined him dancing with her in the night soon to come, and nearly blushed at the thought.

“Hey,” she said. “Before you decide to get any  _ cuter _ , do you think we should head out? I still want to show you the library where I’ll be working. I bet there will be at least a few things you’ll find interesting. The place is stunning, you know…and hey, I had success taking you shopping. Maybe I could spark your interest in books too. I can be  _ convincing,  _ can’t I?”

While there wasn’t much Mischa loved more than teasing Nigel in public, she was eager to show him. She encouraged him to buy the clothes he picked out (much to the store owner’s relief), and hurried to change. It felt good being back in her normal clothes again, but she did admit she was excited to wear it as long as it meant wearing it with his arms wrapped around her.

___

If his  _ unsavory _ experiences of the past could mend into a fraction of what he was feeling as of now. He didn’t have to pursue the happiness; something about the way they were talking made him think they must be newly-weds among the few crowds who glance towards them with both  _ disbelief _ and relative  _ contentment _ . Too much to process as he extends his own slender yet toned, outstretched hand and what seemed to be a mere fragile apparition of lost fantasy fulfilled as he gets entirely caught up in topping off their purchases with the grandiose finale. With dazzled eyes alight with starlight, his form is pressed and almost adhered to her side as a  _ protective arm  _ encircles around her slender and elongated dimple of her spine, which had been like those of a young girl. Incongruously un-sexual, yet they’re  _ gorgeous _ specimen among the city of  _ Renaissance _ .  _ Wasn’t this their own rebirth? _ His face remains still and swept-clean, yet there’s permanent etch to the corner of his lips. A faint evidence that seem to reflect a kind of trance that  _ razes _ his maelstrom. 

He only wants to draw their shared aura, mingling to form something sweeter than the whispering zephyr between blossoming cherry blossoms as long as possible. The coppery glow from his body heat illuminates and in contrast to the dark knight’s aura he wears, he knows Mischa will be that sliver of  _ innocence _ and  _ light _ within him that he’ll forever retain. “You fucking know it,” glimmering hazel shooting through disheveled hair with brimming intensity, he merely nods. As an inarguable fact. “Eh, why the fuck not, but only if we grab the gelato on the way. I need to head straight to the club after fulfilling my interest… in books.” With a shrug of his shoulder, he quickly  _ quashed _ the rebellion within his mind about his aversion towards books. They were both so capable of slipping into that  _ dualistic pendulum _ and they were more like mysterious beings with intrinsic qualities of both, yet, it seemed to make her something sacred. Something  _ untaintable _ and  _ immaculate _ . 

It barely takes a heartbeat for him to make a determined decision (between the lilac clutch with clean-cut piping like ubiquitous Chanel bag and more peach-colored and feminine modern touch with pearls and pleats). Choosing the latter and piling everything up on the counter, he turns head over shoulder. Momentarily at a loss, his unblinking almond eyes narrow a slight pinch at the mention of such word he didn’t associate with himself. “Don’t fucking push it, darling, I just might fly away like an  _ ephemeral dream _ upon the fantastical realm.”

Producing his fat wallet from the back pocket while the man behind the counter rings up their damage for the afternoon, he playfully nudges against her towards the opposite direction. Even when they were strapped for money, he could splurge to good inclination. “That’d be eight hundred euros,” the owner of the store speaks with a distinctive accent and Nigel’s quick to count the money. “Exactly  _ seven hundred and seventy. _ C’mon, we’re practically fucking walking billboards, besides, I have something I have to treat my gorgeous over here and I barely have time.” An irresistible smile that tugs the corner of his lips and he knows he’s already won over another individual through his magnetism.


	7. Chapter 7

She had nearly forgotten the treat she had been promised, and like a child in a candy store, she immediately grew excited. She told him the library could wait for another time; as surprised as she was to have such eagerness for the foreign activity, she was actually  _ excited _ to go out with him tonight. The price of the clothing made her raise an eyebrow at Nigel, but nonetheless the price didn’t seem to bother him. As long as they had enough for rent, Mischa supposed it would be nothing to worry about. Having nice clothing was such a luxury that she was ever-grateful that they could afford.

“We’ll go later,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder as they paid (that’s what  _ normal  _ people did, wasn’t it?  _ Gentle hands on the shoulders of the ones they loved in a foreign clothing store?). _ “I want that gelato. Be it a tourist trap or not, I’ve been dying to try one since we stepped foot here. And I might actually be excited for tonight. Even if it means wearing very pretty, opaque cling wrap.” She sent a playful nudge his way. Of course, she  _ was _ teasing. She really did love the dress, and was still left astounded by how it made her look. As much as she teased him, and as much as he seemed to reject such frivolous activities such as shopping, he really did have an eye for color and size.  _ The details _ , she thought. She found this intrinsically fascinating, and wondered if she would have to take him out with her more often.

“Thank you,” she said. “I love it. I really do. You never told me you had such an eye for fashion. I’m not going to forget that.” She smiled, not without a hint of mischief, but was ever-grateful nonetheless. As they exited the shop, Mischa once again found herself awestruck by the magnificence of the city. The buildings were so ancient, it was like walking through another period in time. Another  _ world. _ The way the city was built with the river, allowing it to flow under and between the beautiful statures, was nothing short of stunning.  _ How lucky we are to be here, _ she thought. She reached for Nigel’s hand, squeezing it tightly as they walked side-by-side, the sun shining brightly on their faces as the day opened its arms in one, beautiful welcome.

“I hope this gelato place is as good as the locals say. I’m sure they charge an arm and a leg, but it’s bound to be better than anything we’ve had back in the states.” As they walked, Mischa never let go of his hand, occasionally curling his fingers around his as she gazed down at the boats floating among the river, holding their own shares of secrets with the lovers and friends and wanderers they held.

___

He’s literally melting into the atmosphere, the city where he was absolutely sure he’d stick out like a sore thumb among all the  _ aficionados _ of the all things richly cultural and artistic. Though he didn’t have eyes of his brother, he could still appreciate the  _ quaintness _ and extravagantly and _ remarkably _ preserved city that seemed to grow into him. Another  _ stronghold _ , an indestructible chain of memory etched within the creases of his brain as their intertwined hands never seem to break apart. He wishes that they’d never be apart until it’ll be hard to distinguish them apart. Like  _ a dream within a dream _ , negating and overlapping what used to be an unendurable sense of defeat manifesting into the golden light of dawn. More so than hearing the ear-splitting sound of gunfire tearing through the air like cannonade of shots, although in his mind, they’re just  _ harmless blanks _ ; but sometimes, with the twist of fate on the death’s fingersnap, all things safe and sound had a reason to turn deadly. 

He wasn’t going to break the news just yet and sour the uplifting mood. Of course, he had been picked up by Darko; working as his right hand man, the large sum of money came from his partaking of a grand larceny by tipping off one of their abductor’s rich relatives, then letting some of his coworkers act on a premeditation focused on that particular individual. With his extreme  _ indifference _ to human life for those who deserved it coming and strong inclination to inflict  _ retaliation _ , his maelstrom, which had been almost like a forbidden emotion for some while seemed to flow through his veins. This is where his rational thought and his  _ fundamental _ gravitational draw to violence butts their heads together. None the high risk, he wasn’t going to meander through the frivolous concept of  _ banality _ , the normalcy of stability. 

This was him  _ gallivanting _ around the city so foreign yet enchanting, him ready-made to take everything all by surprise and gambol around the afternoon sun like what normal people do. “Fine by me, you know how fucking I hate to be ripped off. I’ve done my proper research and this place is fucking it.” He could literally feel his eyebrow raise up to his hairline as they wend away like a traveling chant from the cathedral. The accumulated perception renders to be all things  _ loveable _ and  _ beautiful _ . 

“You fucking know it, I could see it through your eyes.” Hazel churned with his amatory advances as their  _ vivacious _ dance along the narrowing cobblestone sidewalk continues, he gets a glimpse of a store, riddled with the buttery and comforting smell of nostalgia become an onslaught against his nostrils. Perhaps another idea, for another time, yet his resounding felicity lies in his own imagination and his own caprices as the city’s atmosphere  _ metamorphoses _ and evolves him. 

“I’ll fucking make sure you get two scoops for the price of one,” with his characteristic jocose antic marking the radiant coppery face that radiants with spark, they’re co-authors of this particular story, no means to be reduced into the mirage upon desert. Like gazing into his oasis, but _ most definitely _ real. 

___

“We’ll see about that, darling…I don’t think using your boyish charm is going to work  _ every _ time you want something out of someone. But you’re more than welcome to try.” He did have his ways of working his way through every situation with his clever tongue ( _ that clever tongue that was capable of far more than just quick wit and charm, she might add) _ . Mischa was easy to get along with, and not a cruel girl by any means, but she didn’t quite have that natural poise and easy flow of words like Nigel. Gripping her bag in her free hand, Mischa inclined her neck to the little shop as they drew closer; noting the beautifully archaic design in which it was built upon, blending in with the rest of the old, sleepy buildings that lined the city.

“Make sure we have enough money for rent this month,” she added as they went to find their seats inside. The chatter of Italian rang around them in thunderous conversation and gentle laughter; Mischa had been starting to pick up on the language, little by little, but there was still so much more she had to learn. When Nigel returned with their dessert, she smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Are you sure we don’t need to be more careful with how we’re spending our money? This job I’ll have won’t be paying a  _ whole _ lot, you know. Everything has been so wonderful since we left home. I just don’t want to run into anything that would be immediately stressful.”

She offered him a smile as she raised the spoon to her lips; she had ordered vanilla, and it was easily the most delicious thing she had tasted in a long time. Sweet and thick, it was easily worth the somewhat hefty price that it came to. She was practically ready to take an entire gallon home if they could afford it. Mischa ate it quickly, even getting a little bit on her chin which she quickly wiped off with a small laugh. Reaching across the table, she flicked her tongue out at Nigel and licked the small bit of his that had landed on the corner of his mouth, like a young girl all over again. She wrinkled her nose as she settled back into her seat, ready to go and get changed so that they could take on the rest of the day.

Mischa realized that, despite her looser clothing that revealed her shoulders and arms, she hadn’t once thought about the ugly scars and markings the entire time they had been out. It was such a relief not to worry, so freeing to just focus on what mattered and not the worries of a danger unknown. She spared her wrist a quick glance, but as she reached across the table to take Nigel’s hand once more, she hardly felt sick to her stomach at all.

___

He’s way  _ too _ into it now; he doesn’t have to think hard to immerse himself and deeply plummet into the sensation. With his soaring confidence and the ‘boyish charm,’ he  _ exemplifies _ outward with a dangerous combination of his narcissistic composure that looms over other throngs of people forming a looping line. Raising a  _ mischievous _ pale eyebrow as the corner of his lips curl and etch beneath his prominent cheeks, he’s already addicted to the sparkle forming into a recurrent milky way that he immediately forgets that fact that he had scars within him. Like the arms of the ocean carrying him, he knows everything will click to its rightful place as the order of the universe would  _ align _ itself whole. 

Life is funny and  _ unpredictable _ like this and that’s the gravitational perk he’s drawn to, rather helplessly regardless of the consequences; some day he’s convincing himself that their world is  _ falling apart  _ without means of reeling the inevitable wreck in. There’s not a single good skeleton within his body and still, Mischa’s  _ morning _ and  _ seraphic _ light offsets his own  _ pitch-black _ night and obsidian darkness. All of his devotion rushing out to caress her as he assures that they won’t be short of their expenses for the month. “Already fucking taken care of, don’t you ever worry,” through the mom-and-pop establishment flowing with thrilling energy of both locals and tourists alike, the ambiance is nontransient as his usual energy seem to  _ palpitate _ within the space. Knowing that everything will be all right, the light overhead illuminates in tremulous quivering as the invisible impression of each and everyone’s presence seeps into his own form. 

Having his  _ flirtatious _ way with the girl behind the counter, it’s not quite two scoops he had confidently promised, but it’s more than what he could conjure up to get his way around it. Even without his smooth, yet borderline  _ histrionic  _ composure that was a piece of his caliber, the celebratory treat he had been longing to intemperate in pursuing them comes in such lush and buttery texture, compacted with explosive flavor. None of the additives to dilute the natural flavor of the ingredient. Immediately, his lips close in his pistachio gelato on its pointed peak as he reciprocates her smile. “Trust me, I’ve got this, we won’t be depraved of the most primitive of human needs and leave you malnourished.”

The  _ elasticity _ and  _ fluidity _ of the soft churn offers an immediate gratification; he always thought of it as the artisan, more upscale and somewhat pretentiously made in small batches, yet those recommended this quaint store tugged away from all the hubbub of the popular destinations were hard to beat. “I’m glad this place had been unanimous when I asked my coworkers, doesn’t words fail one, I had never ever imagined us being in such a city.” 

Ravening his own cup down with a plastered grin stretching from ear to ear, he could definitely see why the place was demanded in spades and things sold out rapidly. If they were only a few minutes late, they wouldn’t have been rewarded with such seats and generous amount. Growing more  _ ebullient _ when Mischa reaches for the corner of his lips, it dawns on him that the pain which used to slash him into pieces and manifested convalescence that had seeped through the layers of his skin and clinging on to enervate his zest seemed to  _ resurge _ . 

Plucking himself off from the chair with a tilt of his head, as unspoken words echo through his  _ inquietude _ heart, he tips his head and seals their exchanges of breaths as his slender fingers clasp tightly. Him given a free rein as nothing would be a stroke of luck from now on; all but counting their blessings that they’re conjoined. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really recommend those who are reading this to listen to M83 - The End. It's part of Charlie Countryman soundtrack and it really fits well with this particular set of replies.

Mischa would take the moment with heart; laugh at Nigel as any good sister and lover would, squeeze his hand just to feel his calloused hand around hers, and be filled to the brim with unbreakable tenderness in his presence. She wasn’t sure how long they sat there for, chatting about nothing entirely important as Mischa sheepishly stole bites from his gelato from across the table. Overall, it had been a lovely day, and there was nothing better she could have asked for in its place.  _ It was like being whisked away to Neverland, something so utterly beautiful it couldn’t possibly be real, could it? _ But his hand entwined with hers was  _ real. _ Her ever-flowing laughter and fingers brushing strands of hair from her eyes, his smile and eyes ablaze with passion and crackling flame were  _ real. _

“I suppose I can always trust you word on that, can’t I?” she said. She liked being able to contribute to their financial situation, but Nigel was ever-confident in his stance that they would indeed be okay. Mischa couldn’t help to feel comforted by his assurance. She knew they would  _ carry on _ as they always did, no matter if they were left on the streets or held in the highest of castles in the land. He knew that, and so did she.

“Maybe we should get going. You did say you had business with your boss, didn’t you?” Mischa found it funny that, as a bartender, Nigel would have to attend such an urgent meeting with his supervisor. Things were different here. Perhaps that was all there was to it. “I’d like to change before we get there.” With what little she knew about club-going, she figured it was important to look her best before they arrived. She didn’t particularly care for her sex appeal according to the other club-goers. But she found there was something particularly empowering about feeling ownership of her body, something she hadn’t realized in years past. It made her feel in control. She found that she liked this more than she ever would have thought.

“Does this mean I get to meet your boss?” she asked with a cheeky grin. “I can be one of those trophy wives that people bring into press meetings. Make a barter to raise your pay.” She was teasing, of course (the day Mischa became a trophy wife would be the day their dear Hannibal rose from his grave), but she was curious nonetheless. Nigel never spoke about whom he worked for or his opinion on the man.

___

Time would heal and mend everything, despite continual marring and violation of their  _ somatic integrity _ , as long as their own presence towards each other had been a citadel upon the repressive measures and abuse of their  _ enigmatic  _ relationship which refused to be defined in a conventional sense. It would be an understatement that the enormity and almost fantastical transformation of the scenery, even with his doubts and incorporeal slip-off from the reality as the obstinate clutch of nightmares still haunted his patterns of Hannibal’s dead face floating around like wisps of light clouds. He definitely could feel the presence of another soul in the midst of their intense carnival. Their shadows touching, that quiet yet intense touch aggrandizes the experience. 

They would have the highest quality of life, even when they wouldn’t be in their  _ paramount _ condition; the realness was what mattered the most; like how Mischa’s presence had shown with such celestial light, even when they weren’t the most flawless beings. The sun sinking down behind their  _ zenith _ \- they would polish and mend each other’s flaws like the nature’s predestined path. As they were very well capable of losing themselves in each other, mapping coordinates and charting through unexplored territories.  _ Even then _ , they would never know the way as the very place had been the quintessential place he’d never been. As long as they masqueraded through the world with an attitude of  _ zealots _ , they wouldn’t be overrun and crushed by such unstoppable apostasy.

“I was thinking of the same, I need to change, wouldn’t want to wear anything profane to such a grave meeting, could I?” Perhaps it was his  _ penchant _ for getting his ways out of the dreading engulfment of what could turn revoltingly hostile as he faced stormy individuals screaming alpha presence upon the world, or it could be his exemplary handsomeness that made things seem more effortless. Yet, he knew he had been regarded with equal  _ caliber _ upon the ones who butted in the business longer than he had in the particular establishment. 

“No, I would very much prefer if you stayed the fuck off from the boss or those who associate themselves with Darko.” All he could enlighten her is that the man was  _ Romanian _ , and he owned businesses all over the most west European countries. He knew the man was very much capable of exerting crimes of  _ moral turpitude _ , yet some of the things were beyond his event horizon. 

“As much as you’d make an excellent barter and plaster yourself to my side, I think none of them wish to be humiliated with such  _ superlative _ presence upon them.” Also, he doesn’t want to get involved in such perplexity, as women tended to make such endeavors much more complicated. They were egotistical assholes and bastards, didn’t need him to hold  _ primacy _ and cause utter tangled mess. “C’mon, finish that up.” As much as he loved the rich nutty taste of chunks of embedded pistachios against his palate, he didn’t have too much of a sweet palate to wolf everything down in a haste. 

___

Mischa couldn’t help but snort. Whatever sort of man insisted on calling himself “Darko” was just about the funniest thing Mischa could imagine. It sounded like some sort of super villain name, or that movie  _ Donnie Darko  _ that never made a single lick of sense to her. Whether Nigel was acting on his ingrained distrust of man, or Darko was as bad as he was being made out to be, Mischa was sure he wasn’t a pleasant man to be around. Still, he seemed like a very high-end business man, and a quite interesting man at that. Wanting to get going, Mischa finished the rest of Nigel’s ice cream, and quickly disposed of their trash.

“Ah…well. He does sound interesting. Even if I can’t act as your pseudo-trophy wife, I’m sure we’ll still have a fun time. Be sure to give  _ Daaarko _ (this would be Mischa’s poor attempt at a Romanian accent) my best regards, if you’d rather me not meet him.” She smiled, biting her lower lip for a moment. “Anyway, I say we go. This dress takes me a little bit to squeeze into.”

And from there, they were off quickly, Mischa taking him by the hand. She smiled ever-brighter, watching him  _ closely _ for no real reason at all. Without warning,  [ she began laughing, and took off running ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DncIwYRGK_8k&t=YWVlMDk4YmI4MGIxZWMzNWU5YzRlMTZjN2ZkMjc4NGFkMWIyNmI0MSxDTjFWendweg%3D%3D) , Nigel’s hand clutched tightly in hers. There was no reason, no urgent matter that demanded their imminent attention; it was the beauty of the day. The sun was shining high in the city, reflecting off the sunny river that wrapped around them and warming her back as a gust of wind blew her hair from her face. They bumped into several others, receiving more than one angry glare that was passively ignored. All the while, the world seemed to blur into slow motion, like running through a dream world that only they could see. And she didn’t stop ‘till they reached the apartment; home, Mischa laughing and giggling solely because she  _ could. _

She tossed off her clothes and went to work squeezing herself into the dress, glancing over at her makeup bag that often went unused. She wouldn’t overdo it, but she used enough to make her feel striking and like she was able to stand out; if, only a little. She passed a glance at Nigel, who looked striking in his dark getup, ever amazed at how nicely he was able to clean himself up when the occasion called. She walked over to him and brushed off the small bits of dusk that had gathered on his jacket, satisfied with their appearance, even if Mischa’s cheeks were still red from their plight.

“Ready when you are, handsome,” she murmured.

___

He had heard contrasting opinions of the man; the most  _ prominent _ account had been this particular mobster to be reckoned with had been recalcitrant and uncommunicative to those who he didn’t hold the utmost  _ respect _ and  _ appreciation _ . At least he himself had vindicated his justified loyalty to the man and had committed himself to be  _ irreplaceable _ . He knew how it had been a child’s play when it comes to individuals such as himself could end up as a mere  _ expandable _ . As long as his fundamental nature wasn’t untenable, then he would play his part in the hierarchical chain of  _ tyrannical haughtiness. _

As long as he hadn’t been unjustly sabotaged by hypocritical deception and machiavellianism, then he would continue to do what he needs to do to hold onto rather affluent lifestyle without having to worry about their finances. Like Mischa had commented, her income wasn’t much to contribute to their high-expense of living in the midst of the city, yet it gave enough of a leeway for her to stay out of any sticky situations. However, being Friday and having literally locked within the invisible bars of the small apartment for so long, they needed a particularly apposite moment to be bombarded with keen excitement. The thumping beat of electronica music would elicit such tingling sensation through the flaring body. Those seemed to be de rigueur of the Italian clubbing, their bodies symphonious with each other’s; pleasing and satisfying as none of the crumbling and tumbling towers condemn them with lingering tortuous memories. 

_ Didn’t happiness and bitterness derive from the same place? _ Through their pressed bodies, his frame had been shattered and reconstructed back with such fortitude and strength. Even when he had been entirely filled with virulent arsenic, as hitching reverberation expanded through every inch of his veins and against their coalesced flesh, all the poured emotions sustained himself to persevere; he has to embrace both of them as long as he wants to keep his precious moments in his heart. That would be both the source of his Achilles’ heel and his  _ resounding _ strength; the concept of humanity that he accepted willingly.    

“I’ll give you a helping hand for you to  _ slither _ into it.” The world upholds in the veracity that Mischa alone could make the earth wholesome; no matter what happens to them, the transcendental quality of this experience would be the one for him to clutch within the core of his heart. As their content reflection tells their story - they didn’t need spoken words that wouldn’t translate the furor of passion. It’s never the desperation of an idealism that they can’t attain, as this had been his desideratum. Not as a concocted fairy tale that could only exist in fictional setting; this had been so real -  _ sculpted in ideal proportions _ . 

He could just have here there and then; as the contouring light blends and closes their parted distance. No more  _ dissimulation _ behind the wall of manifested restrainment. Those suits were the most dauntless wings he could wear; as fundamental to his existence as it could come. Shifting the revolver beneath the form-fitting, silky blazer as fingers curl around the clutch and upon Mischa’s waist. “And you look absolutely fucking gorgeous.” He doesn’t have to percolate to know that she’d knock everyone’s fucking socks off if he makes his way with her plastered by his side. “Don’t forget your clutch and I might have another surprise for you at the club.” A simper faintly sketches as the moment consummates itself. 


	9. Chapter 9

With the utmost warmth and clarity, Mischa closed her eyes for a moment and slid her hands down to place them on top of his, turning her head to place a small kiss on his lips. She was beautiful, truly stunningly so, and it was a sight to behold. Mischa didn’t want to look at it as a temporary transformation, but more as her embracing of what she’s yearned for her whole life; confidence, radiance, and freedom to explore the limits of her body and expression. Confidence was a gift that one had to earn, if not born with it straight from the start. She had been born with the confidence to survive; now, it was time to earn the confidence to  _ live. _

“Of course,” she said. She couldn’t forget something his eye for detail had so lovingly selected. Mischa side-eyed him, lips curling into a small smile at the mention of a  _ surprise.  _ Nigel was a man of unpredictable predictability, a walking contradiction that never failed to amuse and surprise, while always managing to keep her on her toes.

“A surprise? Can you give me a hint…?” she batted her eyelashes (a trick that only  _ sometimes _ worked. They were too busy for her to employ more  _ persuasive _ measures to get her to tell him what she wanted).  But she knew he wouldn’t. Mischa figured it could be an array of things, ranging from jewelry to her most favorite Lithuanian food being served at the establishment. Regardless of what it was, she was excited and  _ flattered _ as a young girl would be that he was so eager to make her happy with little things.

“I think you spoil me too much, but I’m not complaining, love. If I must wait until we get there, I’m sure it will be more than worth it.”

She was more than ready to leave. She was grateful it wasn’t a long drive. When they arrived, the club was already full, pounding with resonating music and throbbing with dancers and socialites, all speaking and laughing in Italian. Mischa hardly felt self-conscious at all, as there were  _ so many people, _ it was hard to settle into the false mindset that all eyes were falling to her. Smiling at Nigel, she found herself nearly overwhelmed by the lights and the sound, the roar of laughter and conversation in a language she was only just beginning to understand.

___

She was truly an  _ embodiment _ of the seraphic angel from the heaven; if he was a god and he would sculpt the most  _ ethereal _ and incomparably  _ beautiful _ human out of one of his ribs, it would be in Mischa’s form, who would completely own this clinging dress that hugged every sensuous curve of his body and made her marred flesh even more beautiful. Like a rough sketch transforming into a impeccably rendered full drawing, he would stare at her in the hubbub of crowds full of mediocre artworks to stare at the masterpiece; like a moth searching for the perfect flame to be extinguished upon. The light spills forth the windows and his hazel reflects every ounce of that strength, as his expression contouring Nigel’s feature is equally sublime. 

A slight tilt of his head sends his pushed-up locks to gracefully curve around deep-ridge of his pale eyebrows and he could feel his warmth turn into scorching heatwave as his gaze turns excessively  _ covetous _ . “It should just remain what it is, a fucking  _ surprise _ . I assure you, you won’t be disappointed.” More than the little excursion which became more than how his mind unfolded such abominable quotidien activity which most population enjoyed, he had taken his utmost care in getting the engraving right. With his typical cursive which bordered intelligible transformed into a work of art under a virtuoso artisan, the short-barreled revolver would be versatile and light enough to be hidden beneath her skirt. With the holster that would surely fit snug around her frame, the mere thought sends him into the realm of  _ exquisite bliss _ . It was as good as coming down from such an ecstasy after a particularly passionate sex. 

“Mischa,  _ my love _ , it took me fucking weeks to come across the perfect one and for such an occasion to deliver the gift, so let’s make haste now, we wouldn’t want to be late.” A subtle hint upon the inscription, which would read  _ ‘Love forever, my love Mischa, from Nigel.’ _

The world was theirs to take for the night and everything else reduced into the blurred raindrops suspended in the air, his held breath puffs against the visor as the chilled air along with Mischa’s pressed side  _ encompasses _ him whole. A hand upon her thigh at all times as he maneuvers with ease. Stars glittered like jewels over where modern and antique converge, as the thrumming vibration shakes his core like nothing else. To be soon lost in the multitude, as thousands of voices and tunes would pile up onto each other, only to be magnified by the deepening night. The energy seem to  _ permeate _ through his dark form as he wounds an arm around Mischa’s slender middle. They are the accented words upon the regularly written characters, shooting up taller than anyone exhibiting the space. 

_ “Attendere per me nel buio.” _ He leans against the curve of Mischa’s neck, just beneath her dainty faux pearl earrings. Full lips generating a warmth akin to fluttering edges of the candle flame as the ruckus of the crowd merely reduce into his own palpitating heart. Before he walks further into the dusky half-light of the back of the club, he whispers in Italian, before quipping in English. “Wait for me in the dark, I’m gonna get you that  _ splendid _ surprise.”

___

If she were to be truthful, Mischa wasn’t sure what to say. Somehow, this particular  _ surprise _ seemed to carry more weight, something he had dedicated a significant amount of time into finding for her. She had a feeling it was more than just a splendid dish of food, perhaps even more than a pretty dress or flattering article of clothing (which, she always appreciated to an endless degree). He was eager to please her tonight, something he was anticipating she would value, and it made her all the more curious. She didn’t ask any further questions; this was important to him, and she wanted him to deliver whatever it was the way he intended.

Music pulsed around them, making it hard to take everything in. Mischa liked the fact that this al made such little sense to her, that there were so many people that were so different than she. It was fascinating to examine her own psyche in response to this strange event, as she found herself not nervous nor uncomfortable, but rather endlessly curious, not to mention  _ happy _ as could be that she was here with the man she loved. The people here were both blind to what was around them, and yet so endlessly immersed in what was directly in front of them as they blended into the setting. This must have been the appeal; losing oneself was bliss, if one was making the choice to do so.

Drawn to his magnetism, Mischa welcomed his closeness, taking care to reach out and drawn him perhaps a bit closer as he leaned in to whisper in her ear that he had something to give to her. Closing her eyes briefly, Mischa could smell his cologne that she so adored, mixed with the hint of cigarette smoke that was neither too strong nor entirely indefinable.  _ Don’t leave so soon, _ she wanted to say as he swiftly stepped back. They had only just gotten here, after all. She watched him leave with a strange yearning, as if there were ever anydegree of uncertainty that he would return.

Taking a seat near the bar, she swore she felt the hair stand on the back of her neck for just a moment, as if someone were watching her from within the crowd. It was a silly notion (although, as Nigel had promised, she did look stunning) but a suspicion nonetheless. Mischa ordered a drink and hastily looked around, but could see nobody in particular that had their eyes set on her.  _ Paranoia, _ she thought.  _ Like a setting on a toy that I can’t seem to switch off. _ She didn’t feel threatened or unsafe, but that odd feeling never really did go away as she patiently waited for Nigel to return. This was something she supposed she would have to live with her entire life, even if wasn’t a particular side effect of their inherent misfortunes that she was used to experiencing. Nightmares, bouts of anxiety over certain smells or certain situations, bouts of unexplainable sadness or unhappy thoughts…all to be expected.

_ This, too, shall fade, _ she reminded herself as she spotted Nigel returning from within the crowd.  _ For myself and for us both. _

___

Of course, this particular gesture was grandeur in both  _ importance _ and being a significant symbolization; not only the firearm itself would serve as an extension of himself always guarding Mischa in the time of dire need, it also would be the  _ instrument _ and the zenith of their tumultuous and intense relationship. So much bad has passed as they were living the life of a rollercoaster where unexpected spirals and vortexes would elicit such diverse reaction. Some would  _ scream _ their lungs off, some like him would sit more petrified as the world reduces into such  _ provocative _ , yet incoherent swirl of hurtling strokes offered the incomparable thrill. The miracle upon all the grief and sadness, he would always take the adventurous and unknown challenge of the future like a seasoned provocateur. 

So many times he had put a halt to the design and the inscription; it had to serve the dualistic emblem. It had to be small and lightweight,  _ effective _ enough for her to utilize, yet feminine and  _ beauteous _ enough to be well-furnished with longanimity of their existence. His eyes cloud with a kind of excitement, though the undulating music seem to negate his audible senses. Too much wrapped with the unfolding night as he is molded by surroundings like clay. Taking the shape of the beatings and poundings, he makes his way with the object of his infatuation clutched snug around his fingers. A velvety black box daintily wrapped with gold ribbon. The way like the  _ Milky Way _ , he’s clutching the lucida of post-mortem. 

And the parted distance and whirl of sadness losing the ground to stand on, he’s entirely too  _ oblivious _ to the world around him as the thought of just existing with her consumes him. None of the bewitching multitudes of the shadows’ and rhythmic fluctuations of the bright flamboyance of the dancing colors, its heart evident in the core where he stands. His heart spilling over as so many unspoken words wrap themselves around the vessel of the loaded firearm. A deep sense of roar begins to thud into him as his soul sparks with endless nerve endings flaring as he’s unable to detach himself from the rush that sweeps over his feet.  _ Light _ ,  _ winged _ , as their presumably physical proximity nears, yet, it was no longer necessary for the two to meet. He would recognize her blindfolded and only with their conjoining  _ heartbeats _ . 

Stopping his way back at the counter and ordering his own drink, he carries both the glass of Rosé and his own bottle of whiskey. He walks like smoke, embodying the nature of the fire as the night  _ ignites _ , the intensity of the music turning into  _ sizzling sparks _ , as he purposefully delivers himself as the love flows in the air - both  _ tantalizing _ and  _ nullifying _ all the senses with unrivaled bedazzlement. 

“Here you are, gorgeous, such  _ blooming _ beauty couldn’t be hidden beneath the air of darkness, could it? Open it up. I want to see you wear it.” 


	10. Chapter 10

She took the box in her hands, gently, as if holding a fragile work of glass in between her fingers. Her first impression was that it was perhaps a fine piece of jewelry, and she was afraid that one wrong move would tarnish it’s beauty. Whatever laid inside was both expensive and most likely not something he had chosen for her with haste. She shook her head in wonder, leaning back against her chair as she gently brushed over the velvet with her fingers before reaching for the latch and opening it up.

It was a gun, one of those small ones that could fit inside her purse, intricately carved and designed to fit a small hand. With steady hands, Mischa reached inside the box and pulled it out, cradling it in her palms as her eyes moved across the cursive engraving. “ _ With love, for my Mischa.” _ Momentarily speechless, her mouth made a small ‘o’ as her eyes glazed over every detail, every little notch and crevice that made it hers.

“Nigel…” she whispered. She doubted he could hear her over the thrum of music, but she was too awestruck to speak any louder. Moving her thumb over the leather grip, she wrapped her fingers around the handle (making sure to keep the nozzle pointed low, even though she knew it was unloaded). Everything about it, from the color to the engraving all the way to the grip was absolutely perfect.

“It’s incredible,” she said, shaking her head again. “Thank you. Honestly, Nigel… _ thank you.”  _ She quickly set it back inside the box and kissed him, holding his cheeks in her hands tightly. It was simply the best and most beautiful thing he had ever given her, something that was so practical and useful, and something that was so inherently  _ Nigel  _ in each of its aspects.

She wasn’t going to pretend she knew how to use it, at least not yet. When the night was over and they had a spare moment in the coming weekend, she would have him teach her. Mischa was not adept in the ways of weaponry, and never really had a reason to be until she learned that sometimes, it really could come in handy. If she had one at Muskrat Farm, things could have turned out differently. The gun came with one of those attractive thigh holsters, but for now, she wold tuck the beautiful weapon in her clutch where it fit, out of sight and protected from scathing or her tendencies for clumsiness.

“It’s beautiful and I love it. I can’t wait until I can try it out…you really outdid yourself this time.” She grinned, and found that she couldn’t stop.

___

This is the pinnacle, the feverous weight of the emotions he has been carrying releasing with the staggering amount of pretty little  _ butterflies _ spreading its way into his ribcage. With fixated hazel slowly tracing the way to Mischa’s slender fingers and up to her downtilt face, those winged creatures  _ encases _ him with flutters of hope and prospect of their unfolding night with such exhilaration and thrill. Perching himself right next to her as he feels the weighty feel of the revolver slowly sink him down, he feels the familiar flare along the length of his spine, as if she had ran her fingertips caressing the slow dip. 

He’s all  _ fire _ and  _ stone cold rage _ when he could be, but now, he’s like the tenderness of the melted butter upon succulent steak and soft pattering rain against the vegetation. Still standing tall like a vehement gargoyle serving as the protector of their realm and safe haven, he still retains his usual muscular and keen composure as he truly is a frightening presence to behold with a soft tongue and piercing eyes. Each of her movement serves like the gentle breeze of air rushing through his heart, rooting itself deep into the core of his stomach. If he could permanently hold onto this incomparable feeling, the rushing feel transpires to become something entirely else. That soft caressing breeze stirs into a considerable hurricane that could wreak havoc and the droplets of water become a dark mountainous tidal wave that would sweep anything and everything whole.  _ How someone so gentle could stir him inside out like formidable natural disasters.   _

As the fading color succumbs more into the darkness, his hazel grows more accommodative of the surrounding sensations, as through escalating thrum of his heartbeat, the anticipation brims the orbiting flecks of his pupils with bed of crackling coals. He could even hear the whisper of the ghosts as his heart attunes to have enough sensation, with bated breath upon on the verge of  _ hyperventilation _ . There had been when time which was never on their side, but things took a drastic turn and if the universe could spare them from such incomparable torture to letting him bewitched in a spellbound colors akin to the warmth of the crackling fireplace. 

Smoky-eyed and his skin brimming with the fluttering edge of the flame in the midst of tranquil home where droplets of rain slowly caresses the edge of the wooden window frame, the ends of his red-tinged lips part to envelop her lips in whole. Between their shared breath as his head cants, the  _ accumulated _ effect of her close proximity - the beat of his heart pulsating through the slatted ribs, the constricting breath squeezing as tears in his lungs mend over and over. The scalding palm burning through her alabaster skin as it blazes onward with  _ aggravating _ music. 

“I’m sure that fucking moment will come, meanwhile before it does, I’ll make sure to teach you the proper way to shoot a gun,” with his equally plastered grin, he tips the shot glass to quench the  _ inextinguishable _ heat surging with a pair of intrepid wings. “Have I earned a chance to have my lovely lady in my arms for a dance? I can have the music changed.”   

___

_ He really didn’t have to ask. _ Mischa wanted some way to thank him, perhaps even to repay him for something so lovingly provided from the wood works of his heart. Even if for now it meant indulging herself in the presence of his arms, then so be it. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the crook of his throat and shoulder, standing there, very still for a moment in time,deaf to their surroundings and the pulsing music she could feel at the core of her chest.

“ _ Of course,”  _ she said. “I thought you would never ask.” There was little she could do but watch him in wonder, as he momentarily left her side to request a music change, leaving her standing by the table shaking her head. Again, that strange absence of his commanding presence seemed to make the little table feel so empty, despite being surrounded by so many people. Even for a moment, his absence was felt as strongly as his presence, two conflicting places in space that demanded to be felt. Mischa took a sip of her drink, and when the song ended, a new, softer song seemed to take it’s place as Nigel re-emerged from the crowd.

She reached out and took his hands, much bigger than hers, not to mention rougher and more calloused, yet wonderfully warm against the ice in her veins. Drawing closer, she slipped her fingers from his grip and encircled his neck with her arms once again, close enough to kiss, to feel the vitality of his heartbeat against her chest.  _ I’m alive, _ it seemed to say.  _ I’m alive and so are you. _

“What song is this?” Mischa hadn’t heard it before, yet she found it beautiful, ears straining to hear the words as people on the dance floor began uniting with their lovers and friends. Watching people in motion was something that was so endlessly fascinating to Mischa, she turned away from Nigel just to observe. Everyone’s behavior seemed to shift dramatically with the music, as if it were some high commander of their emotional wood work. While some people preferred to sit away from the floor, others seemed just as happy as they were with the electric pulse mere moments before.

But now, she would give her full attention to him.

“I think…” she began, tilting her head to kiss the curve of his jaw, “That you’re sweeter than you let on sometimes.” Laughing quietly, she looked up at him for a moment, losing herself in those strange eyes that always seemed to both threaten and adore all at once. “You’ve given me such a wonderful day. What was the reason for this? I haven’t felt this happy in ages.”

___

With the sip of the whiskey to both quench his thirst and to propel the imbued throbbing heart of his to beat with much purpose, the  _ swelling _ and  _ thriving  _ commotion of the crowds like thousands of fireworks going off in succession slowly ebbs down to come down from its climactic hubbub. The descent is gradual, the decibel and the RPM immediately scaling down. The usual tightening feeling he had felt at the club dissipates as he basks beneath the  _ softened _ , yet  _ dazzling _ radiance of the light, sweeping through every contour and curve of their bodies. They’re the queen and king of the night, destined to occupy the very space with  _ intention _ ; their only objective is to intoxicate with their shared breaths and auras, permeating through their garments. 

He never dares to break the beatific, almost  _ celestial _ feeling sweeping through his veins. The iciness and tenseness he was so used to drips like honey, both sweet and sinfully caressing. His hazel takes her whole compacted form in, appreciating and revelling in its  _ marvelousness _ as she becomes this  _ immaculate  _ package full of angelic beauty; something seems to flutter up her face like flocks of doves as the light  _ descends _ further and seeps through every folds and creases of her wrap dress. Lips ajar as he’s momentarily at loss for everything, he wishes to preserve and forever fossilize this moment in time like a plaque. 

With their close togetherness, seemingly an instant, his already warm blood meld and blur into thick streaks as they pour forth with  _ ferocious _ speed. The past is the past, it won’t change the intrinsic nature of their perseverance to endure such curveballs with the mission onward with their  _ enigmatic and labyrinthine _ life. 

“It’s called ‘ _ Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman _ ,’ thought the song was fucking appropriate with such occasion,” his face cants, as he feels a slight stubble brush upon the curve of her cheeks. As the hurtling craziness of the dance floor maintains its cohesiveness as each pair becomes the sparkling diamonds scattered upon the milky way, where the subtle ray sweeps the floor. Goosebumps rise on his back, trailing up from his arm as such unwavering bliss, plasters him towards Mischa with the  _ onslaught _ of the undying beatitude. 

“Do I need a justified reason? I always visualized such memory as this. It just took moment longer than I speculated,” drawing his shoulder and pivoting to face the diffusing light upon his  _ mysterious _ face; seeped with greed, yet maintaining his smug countenance. Warmth-containing fingers tracing the slender dip of her neck, he brushes the tip of his nose against hers, advancing as his head slants, upper lip seeking out more of the sweet taste of her. 


	11. Chapter 11

She has no qualms taking him into her arms. No  _ reason _ s not to claim him as nothing but hers and let every living, breathing soul sing the symphony of their untested triumph. The music was beautiful and calming, and although Mischa was no dancer, she found that she reacted naturally to the music, letting it guide her hands and feet in what could almost be considered dancing. The freeform movement of her limbs was almost childlike, relaxed and free, not in any need to appear poised or graceful to any onlookers or casual observers.  The movement was natural and free, and much like the man in her arms, the music too was a work of beauty.

“This isn’t something I’ll forget. Not this night, not what you’ve given me, not this memory… Aš myliu tave _ , _ Nigel. There isn’t anyone I’d rather live my life with.”  _ I’ve been able to take on the world with you. Nobody else has seen me in such a light, seen me break into a million brittle pieces. No one’s picked them up like you. _

Nigel being her brother, in every sense of the term, was a secret she would always keep between herself and him, for it was the very basis of their passionate affair, the very reason their devotion was a never-ending flame that was fed by their will to live. When she was alone, Mischa contemplated what this meant in the long-run; there was a very real possibility they would never be able to marry one another if such an idea were to ever be brought to the table, nor would they be able to have biological children of their own. Their siblinghood was such an integral part of their existence, the very core of their being and suffering, and yet the ideology of its truth held more obstacles than typically crossed a normal relationship. Not that what they had was ever really normal; not many people suffered nightmares and flashbacks about almost being eaten by swine bred by a paraplegic billionaire sadist.

_ Life imitates art, _ Mischa reflected bitterly.  _ We’re strange people with stranger lives. And maybe that’s okay. _

His touch sent goosebumps up her arms, instinctively drawing closer, hands creeping up his shoulders and around his upper back; and she wanted to kiss him, and she could kiss him, and it was the most magnificent feeling in the world. Even when long after they were gone, gone from this place, this country, and even this alien world that seemed so eager to drag them into the deep, Mischa felt that this memory would preside.

___

All those emotions and fears that had intruded his brain, those fucking persistent memories to remain that will be forever his bane. His body aches for this moment, not because of their shared  _ agony _ and  _ traumatization _ , but this yearning wait, that moment where their imprints of important people, whether  _ beneficial _ or  _ malicious _ , stay in the physical realm. Though the unbearable searing of brands would be always there in his heart, yet the music caresses and plucks him off from the remains of the past. 

With steady storm in his eyes, though his feet glides along the dance floor as if the weight upon the world had been torn off from his ankles. His limbs still recall the heartache, as he plummeted upon the violence carved upon the slatted bars and even in the midst of slowly fading away as his ravaged body had been coaxed to recover. Now every desecration had been elevated into sudden stentorian sound.  _ Count the years _ and percolate how wicked their  _ preordained  _ life could be and wonder if a lot of people had ever grieved over the cold earth and adrift vortex of swirling snowflakes. 

As he still registers his fingers being clutched upon the faint afterglow still lingering in the western sky as it dissolved gradually into the surrounding darkness like a puff of smoke, his warmth transpires through the creased folds of Mischa’s dress with eternal purpose. His heart also was well aware of the  _ quiet touch _ , the presence of another soul as Mischa had appreciated his heart beating, her aura tenderly blowing into his lungs as Hannibal’s shadow’s edge became  _ prominent _ as well. 

Their existences mingled, quietly yet potently, as sad flames of notes licked up against the curve of his straightened back. “ _ Pažinčių atrodo prarasti savo prasmę _ , Mischa. The  _ word _ ‘love’ seems to lose its meaning in this particular moment. More like an intoxication, or ponderable reality.” They could be abruptly torn off and hurtled into another dimension, away from this bewailing experiences. 

Fingers slow walk through her slender neck, before the warmth-radiating tips settle over her collarbones as he folds over his lips; more  _ deeper _ and  _ sensual _ as his defined muscles moving effortlessly like a tuned instrument. Too  _ entranced  _ and caught up as he gets utterly consumed from his core, the interruption serves as jagged  _ slivers _ as the  _ splinters _ along his skin picks their way through the chambers of his heart, bursting through as his view is tangled with bursting lights. 

___

She was ever-grateful there was no conflicting ideas in her mind, for moments like these would only made to be diluted by unnecessary thoughts and feelings of despair. For he was right, perhaps love wasn’t enough; whatever this was, whatever they were supposed to be, existed just as it should have, as it was meant to. And it was not in their nature to doubt; there had been too much that had happened for any doubt to remain present for anymore than a fleeting thought. If the true nature of what they were was meant to remain a secret, then let it be so, she thought. The world wasn’t entitled to know anything about her at all.

There was a certain electricity present between them now; that familiar racing of the heart, static in the veins that transformed mere tenderness into desire, that brought warmth to her belly and fingertips. Like the experience of tunnel-vision, it was hard to see anything in her peripheral vision when all she wanted was him touching her. They had little boundaries in what their relationship permitted, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him that she wanted him –  _ now. _

“If love is not enough, then it will be enough to say we exist exactly as we were meant to,” she murmured. “I have always wondered what it meant to live this way, and even if we…perhaps aren’t supposed to live our lives how we are according to the rest of the world’s expectations, then it is enough to forget its rejections and live as we were still meant to be.”

She smiled as she said this, so close that she could feel his breath warm against her cheek, his heartbeat racing as fast as hers against his broad chest. Nigel was illuminating, in all that he did and said; and that was enough for her. Even when he was standing so quietly against her, speaking mountains with his gaze, there was always a part of him that shone.

“I want to be alone with you.” She was leading him, in a way, as the song came to an end, although she had no clue where she was going; this place was as good as foreign to her while she sought for a place for them to be alone. She never broke eye contact with him; he knew as well as she what she wanted.

___

Even though the  _ amplitude _ of the music is lesser than the pulsating beats of the ear-splitting electronica with riffs and thrums, there’s much more tremendous thump that threatens to  _ burst open, _ like a mountain falling into a valley. Each beat of the provocative longing and yearning translates into the hurling moments of circus trapeze as the it mimics the coalescing array of subtle light beams, caressing and contouring onto the floor and along their adhered bodies as each fading ends become the flower petals in spring, as initial wave of perplexity sweeps through the audience. It gradually subsides into cowed silence and gaze with great concentration as he ignores the series of abrupt interruptions of nudging elbows and steps from the other couples. 

Finally, he was beginning to learn to _ let go; _ all the wretched  _ people _ and  _ places  _ and  _ things _ he just can’t seem to forget as he closes the chapter in finality. Those memories  _ metamorphose _ into a flock of migratory birds, or better, the hurtling sketch of smoke dissipating into the thin air among the ambiance of the club;  _ intangible _ and  _ transient _ . He only concentrates on painting Mischa with hearts and engulfs her with his burning aura that continues to be fueled by her fire. Like the nurturing sun that caresses every expanse of his skin and makes him aglow with vigor. 

“Just like us looking at the sky - there’s a fundamental reason why we look at the fucking thing in longing and wonder and awe. Just like how I’m able to stand,  _ gaze _ at you like watching the distant flutter of the vast ocean. Whether  _ unperturbed calm _ or a prospect of  _ calamity _ is near - I’m forever spellbound by the ineffable tug of my gut. The very  _ carbon _ and  _ dust _ we’re created from, every  _ pulse _ and  _ fingerprints _ we have painted against each other’s skin makes us one.”

Through the gentle ripples of his muscles as their embracing dance was the most comforting when they had shared the grief of losing his brother, his head fills with incomparable silence - as  _ aggravating _ and  _ unyielding _ desire rolls inside him as his skin feels heated with each flaring gaze - gentle curve of her body, long, flowy hair carrying on the pleated undulations through her comely face as the illumination reaches its pinnacle upon the pearl earrings she wears. 

With held breaths, he carries himself like a whirling surge of tidal wave, not tearing a single ray of gaze away from her as the warmth transpires into the exposure of sunlight. “Your wish is my wish,” his voice grows so low as it buries beneath the distancing wave of the tunes, almost barely  _ intelligible _ . The stimulation alone passes through him like a continuous electric shock as he manifests himself like a  _ whirlwind _ . His movements quick and precise. His stale office immediately enlivens with their  _ compelling _ presence - the door locked, a light shove upon her shoulder as his nimble fingers immediately grasp around her ankles as they paint long, defining stroke along her calf, all the way down to reach her heels.


	12. Chapter 12

_ Somehow, he always speaks like a poet. Nigel, the boy who climbed to the top of pine trees just because he could, who would punch me in the shoulder when I was being a sissy and drive Hannibal crazy when he was trying to do homework had the tongue of a gentleman with eyes of tethered flame. Maybe that’s why I feel so small, _ she thought.  _ Not because I’ve always been the little sister, but because I don’t see myself the way he sees me. _ She couldn’t help but feel minuscule when he saw an entire galaxy within her soul and couldn’t feel it spiraling within her.

Her instinct was to say something cheeky in return; sometimes, the things he said were too much for returning conversation; she was left looking at him in silent wonder, eyes narrowed as she studied him, hardly ever able to decipher what it was that made him think this way, or say the strange and wonderful things that he did. His face would be calm, that small, little smirk and tilt of his head that often times told more to the tale than his words. They shared the mutual study of one another, as they often did when verbal communication was no longer necessary. And exchange of understanding that neither one of them were beings born to be entirely understood.

Nevertheless, Mischa took his hand and allowed herself to become the follower, watching him with eager intent as they drifted through the crowds of people, young and older alike. They shared drinks and kisses, dances and laughter, and time seemed to move in slow-motion and blend into a whirlwind of sound. Despite her eager anticipation and growing warmth in her stomach, she was surprised Nigel had an actual  _ office _ at this place, even more pleasantly so when she found it had a couch and chairs. With a sudden influx of silence as the door shut behind them, Mischa found herself being lowered down, soft pillows meeting her head as she leaned back with an arch of her shoulders. Already trembling, his fingers sent tremors through her abdomen as they trailed lightly down her leg and –  _ oh _ … perhaps he would kiss her like this…

Her tendencies of curios observation ( _ Little Lotte, let her mind wander…) _ were sent to a rather sudden halt as she inhaled sharply, a ghost of a smile drifting across her cheeks. She wasn’t looking at him  _ now, _ not as long as he didn’t require any encouragement _. _ That would be for later.

___

With his slowed movements as accumulated buildup from the dance floor slowly elevates, in the  _ serene _ darkness, there sinks their two shadows, joining together in multitudes of  _ flickering _ movements. He feels he’s treading through an ambulatory exploration of the countryside as he had done so many times as a boy. His fingers are the  _ turmoil _ dances of the foliage leaves, scattering about the Mother earth as the flutters of migratory birds scatter with such a mellifluous notes from violin strings, emitting the most levitating and sweet  _ serenade _ upon the chilled air. His chest stills, awaiting that very moment of thrill before he plunges into the leap from the cliff. His fingertips glide against her flesh, along her slender calf, traversing upward beneath the clinging ruffle of the dress encompassing her alabaster skin as he rides through the gentle curve of the stream. Through her scarred ridges, the light penetrates forth and soon spills, pouring out like the  _ glorious sunset _ . 

He doesn’t have to recall such dysphoric memories of the past as the time had halted, as if he’s stepped into another  _ realm _ ; none of the things outside the space which they occupy mattered, or he’s in too much of a obscured haze to conceptualize it within his fragmented synapses and muddled memories. He had lost someone who was his  _ home _ , the only safe sanctuary in the world. So many times he had  _ reminisced _ the pitter-patter of the rain, their hot breaths mingling against each other’s exposed skin and  _ entanglement _ of their limbs, too vividly clear in the back of his eyeballs. He doesn’t even think of having a backup home as he had been  _ utterly lost _ \- the wretched memories passed through as pins and pricking needles, intensifying into unbearable proportions though he wanted to shut everything off and let his body remain in an empty carapace - so many times he had wished his astral body exploring Mischa in whole again in his arms, scrutinize her further. 

In the midst of seemingly infinite  _ vastness _ of the obsidian that blurs the edges of where they start and end, he seeks a glittering pathway of scattered stardusts upon the presented garment. Them, the fucking flawless  _ pearl _ in his nestled office, along with his own  _ existence _ and  _ presence _ expanding outward like a galaxy, filled with exquisite euphoria as he paints her with his warmth. Such elasticity of his breaths and his  _ inebriated _ blood evident as it left a scintillating plasticity of his radiant smile. 

_ Us. Two fucking letters, whole world. Whole fucking world that they can put the future and the past into. They roll like thunderstorms, with magnificent flares and sparks as such monstrous sensuality forms in such a solidity. _

As wrapping air of desire settles over their skin as his gossamer tips increase in their force,  _ anchoring _ her down as he roams his dripping gaze to penetrate through the only layer preventing him from encountering the twinkling illumination, his spine arches beneath the pressing barrel like a feline cat. A calm before the storm as he lifts up to the air and sweeps down like a gust of wind grazing through the meadow as he breathes her in whole.  

___

Her reaction was entirely  _ involuntary, _ a gentle gasp, a sigh and a quiet whimper of her body craving more of his gentle touch. He wasn’t the sort of lover where she had to pretend anything at all; he was good and gentle and rough when she wanted, knowing every particle of her skin and how she reacted to every brush of his fingers. Mischa closed her eyes, fingers trailing down her legs to hoist up her dress above her hips, muscles taut against the couch. Everything felt like electric, even his breath which was so light against her warm legs. Even though she did not utter a word, she was pleading for more, already worked up and practically trembling at his touch.

Mischa would never be able to fathom allowing herself to be so compliant to anybody else, allowing one person to have total control of her body and mind in the greatest way any human could; it was her choice, her dedication, her bliss that only Nigel would ever be allowed to tap into. Allowing herself to be held down, physically and mentally, more vulnerable before him than anybody else. Should she dare believe something should ever happen to the two of them, some ungodly separation that chilled her to the bone to ever consider, the privilege she had granted to herself and to him would not be passed on to another.

With her eager surrender, she was itching to undress him, knowing that he was enjoying this just as much as she was. It was a shared delight, knowing that they had equal pleasure in making the other weak in their arms. Even if she relished his wonderful control, she was intricately aware of what made him melt and mold beneath her careful hands. Mischa lived for the moments she could make him sigh and moan her name like he knew how to say nothing else. It was a sort of intimacy that went so far beyond physical closeness, it made every dream, every whisper seem so real, long after it was uttered and lost between them in memories.

___

As far as he could recall, breathing her existence in was something like an  _ alignment _ of fates - no matter how small he was compared to the vastness and grandiosity of the woods in his childhood years, his reckless adventurous spirit would stubbornly attempt to conquer such  _ spectacular _ view. Unfolded upon an auburn spectacle slowly withering beneath the dazzling radiance of the snowdrift. Even when his eyes prick with tears with the lashing biting wind, the chambers of his lungs closing in as his throat constricts, and his heart, enliven as ever as he  _ morphed _ into the atmosphere. He was the same boy that would have given her his life to explore the  _ uncharted territory, _ even when he had felt like heart full of dust beneath the shivering swallow. 

And now his body  _ mimics _ that sensation, as both lover and  _ fighter _ . The  _ dichotomy _ of his limbs; means of such effective weapons now flowing like his smile stretching near the magnificence of their pressed bodies. The strength of those melt into the caressing wind, then races into a gust as his shadow entraps her - the world crumbling down to the  _ pyre _ of their entire galaxy as he burns like a star. As both  _ creation _ and  _ destruction _ of self through their shared blood and breaths. Alighting each other to find their as both of them serve as being the source of  _ protectiveness _ and  _ solace _ , like the stillness of the night.

Fingers burn, getting intoxicated by the resounding heat which turns the settled dimness of the office into everything blurry. All that’s left clear is her, the boundary where she begins and ends and where his entwined form starts. As slow dance of the dance floor before now  _ electrifies _ his senses, he relinquishes his inhibitions and closes his eyes, devouring as mouths intertwine, the softness of her skin on his face becomes no badinage. Filled with an innate affinity to become unified as they weld together beyond the ebb and flow, hands races to unfasten the buttons as soon as her form flushes beneath him, only clad in underwear. 

“Undress me,” as his form submits to the fusion of their bodies as she becomes the embodiment of continuous sparks flaring between emotion-charged windows of their souls, no amount of words can perturb this combusting fire.His charged heartbeat gradually throbs, as if his tangibility had been already crossed the inevitable - distancing closer as the rubbing emotion becomes almost  _ asphyxiating _ , every  _ follicle _ , stubble brushes against Mischa’s cheek, whispering a sentence before things go out of haywire, as the blackness whizz and hurl him towards the other side. “I’m already hard, as soon as you’re fucking ready.” 


	13. Chapter 13

It was a rush of cold air, not entirely unpleasant yet swift enough to send a fresh array of goose bumps up her back and arms. Relieved was she, however, to be rid of her dress, despite how pretty it was and how wrinkled it would be laying in a helpless clump on the ground. This wasn’t something that entirely concerned her, however, as this only meant there was more availability for him to touch her. Which, of course, she was silently demanding at this point, practically pulling him on top of her so that she could better undress him.

If she were to be perfectly honest, she had already undressed him a thousand times with her eyes along after he had given her his timely gift, intricately beautiful and wholly  _ hers _ , a promise of protection and rustic beauty that fit her small hands like a glove. He was always commanding in his presence, but something about that gesture seemed to awaken a fire; she had wanted him so badly, she was hardly willing to wait until they got home.

Careful not to destroy the expensive fabric, Mischa wasted no further time undressing him and tossing his clothes aside in a heap with hers beside the couch, a strange, contrasting blend of black and white garments now completely forgotten as she decidedly took him into her arms. Kissing, heavy sighs and gentle tugs of his hair as she bit down on his lower lip; they were lucky they didn’t need to speak, even though it was an added bonus making verbal demands. If it was possible to devour him whole this way, Mischa would see it as done. She wanted him in her lap, over her body, in her mouth and wrapped in her arms all at once, and knew she didn’t need to speak for him to be readily aware.

“You’re wonderful is what you are,” she murmured in between fervent kisses, gasping as she felt him in between her legs, hair sticking to her neck with sweat from her heated skin.  It was growing hard to think now, and that was exactly what she liked, exactly what she  _ wanted, _ as she pulled him closer and demanded to be loved.

___

More than the carnality transpiring and expanding to be something greater than their  _ unification _ , there is something distinctive and beautiful about this that he refuses to resist. As if he dealt with  _ fire _ , he would be reduced to ash as he doesn’t  _ settle _ and  _ tolerate _ . As fire meets gasoline of her silent command, he desires to burn with her tonight as  _ tremendous _ heat elevates from red to white, literally hurtling forward in result. As his  _ reverence _ and  _ softness _ merely extends to the boundary of where they begin and end as their occupying presence exceeds that of the couch, he is temporarily blinded by her dazzling light of her fully exposed skin. Now Mischa deserves every instrumentation he can offer.

His voice turns into a  _ glimmering _ ripple of crescents upon the unperturbed ocean as the outbreak of arousal turns his tone to sink lower than his usual hoarse baritone. She alone is the permanent refuge he will  _ safeguard _ himself from all the harm as he treads between blurred strokes of their gliding skin and tangible reality of  _ confounded _ embrace, becoming even more fervid as he becomes transported within the persistent gale of the tumultuous sea as they undulate as one.  _ The Titanic in my mind, still unsinkable, untouched, never ephemeral. _ Turning wounds into wisdom as Mischa begins to conquer every tangible  _ manifestation _ he could offer. 

_ They would be each other’s protector of their shared realm, the unconquerable well of their stacked memories.  _

However he appreciated the fine fabric clinging their ravaged form as they had endured tenacious pricks turn into icy icicles, digging further into their skins, their scars signify the  _ survivalists’ testament _ through togetherness; even when they were  _ broken _ , or  _ betrayed _ , or  _ left _ , or  _ hurt _ as death brushed too near against them. 

As all of his latent energy sparkles with grinding motions and through their relatively silent coalescing of hot breaths, he hooks an arm beneath her thigh as he plummets deeper. All force and without hesitation as the sensation becomes almost unbearable as the new intensity streams forth through Nigel’s straddling movement. With ease of the constricting fiber of her muscles, he accepts the  _ battle-cry _ of his body as he assails. The triumphant feeling overwhelms with a drop of sweat temporarily blinding him, he flutters a long exhale as wanton incandescence enraptures his damp back, the deep penetration squeezes his lung to make him gasp out loud. 

____

The movement is rough, briefly and fleetingly painful, but tender in everything she felt. He was wholly in her arms, fully and devoutly hers. It was a ragged sort of beauty, and Mischa was moaning unabashedly (it wasn’t like anyone could hear them anyway) with her head tossed back, digging into his skin like he was a lifeline meant to be held onto. When she lifted her head, she kissed just below his ear, whispering a promise of love in their native tongue that she would seldom say again in such a manner. Private words for lovers not meant to be heard by any outside ears.

How he had acquired such an intricate understanding of her body was ever fascinating to her; it was as if he himself had built her, had forged every bone and molecule of skin. He seemed to know what made her gasp and what made her squirm without ever having to ask, knew when to whisper in her ear and when remaining quiet was what she wanted most. Sometimes, listening to him gasp and pant while above or beneath her was enough to make her veins sing, a wide smile stretching across her pink lips as her eyelids dropped and weighed down in her own, trembling delight. It was wild and heart-racing and she was moving with him, everything rushing and racing and pounding through her hears as she bit his throat and lower jaw, leaving small marks around the skin.

For a moment, she feared she may have drawn blood when she climaxed, as she had dug into Nigel’s back so fiercely she felt her nails sink into the shoulder blades as her back arched, head thrown back involuntarily before falling limp onto the couch. Her insides were twitching and spasming in the after-effects of a very effective orgasm, goosebumps trickling up her arms. She lies back, feeling her chest rise and fall as he continues to work himself inside her, wanting him to feel the full effects of his intimate pleasure. Mischa continued to hold him as he worked over her, nibbling at his ear, murmuring sweet words of encouragement and low purrs just loud enough to be heard over his ragged breathing. 

“ _ Tell me you want me, darling,”  _ she whispered, smiling against his ear. She positioned herself partly upright, holding him as he ground against her form. “ _ Go on.” _

_ ___ _

The tender and careful  _ exploration _ transpires into a violent fizzling of his aggrandizing energy, tumultuous force creating a damaging fissure upon his broad back as a continuous  _ aftershocks _ rattled and ravaged through the little ridges and peaks of his muscles. They’re the finest painters towards each other; their  _ commanding _ colors and exceptional skill of a virtuoso, how charged their magnificent strokes become from sweeping and sensual to decisive and gestural as they transform the pain of their previously tormented life into an  _ ecstatic _ beauty. He feels the  _ staccato _ of her pulsating heart upon his lips, as he continuously breaths their coalesced scents in. Their passion and pain to roam upon their flesh as he feels blinded. 

Every  _ utterance _ and audible gasps spilling forth his lips become the dazzling ray of the sunlight itself. Nurturing and nourishing, yet capable to fold his heart whole. With all its grand breadth of the charged atmosphere expanding even more so with his frantic movements, pistoning into her as he relishes the lengthening stillness as she contracts and tightens around him. It would become ruthless for his heart as he drowns in the litany he orchestrated solely for her. That throbbing rhythm digs into his bones every time he sings or listens to her reciprocated hymn. 

Fingers burn and explore, the unspoken words becoming seemingly evermore lost as he maps the coordinates upon her splayed body. Every gentle curves and fluttering muscles as pendulous unification leaves no space for anything else; he has always loved too  _ hard _ , too  _ tight _ , and with too  _ much _ of his heart as paradise unfolds. The urgency is that of a wanderer treading mazily the streets as his sole fixation remains to be the north star as he clutches her breast as he gets utterly lost between a constant panting sound of a wild animal and her contracting folds of her engorged petals, alarmingly egging on his own release. 

“Always,” he plummets into her with renewed propensity and sucks her jaw as his body intersperses with the profound thrill as the zenith accompanies, with the shuddering petrification. “Always  _ exhilarating _ . like jumping out of a plane without a parachute, yet with such unabashed determination and without hesitation, for I know you’ll be there for a clashing embrace.” A ghost of a grin etches through his pink lips before he releases a ribboning jet, as if he had been raptured upon that rushing air that would descend him down with such  _ velocity _ ; falling forward, as if swooning into her embrace. 


	14. Chapter 14

It was a few moments before Mischa had any intent on moving from where she half-sat, head bowed against his neck. Her breathing steadied as she smiled against his skin, holding him close against her as the pounding blood in her ears slowed to a steady rhythm. She could feel his pulse in his neck, slick with sweat and warm against her gentle lips. Shifting herself so that she could look at him, she offered him a warm smile. Mischa could very faintly hear the thudding music from behind the door, an auditory backdrop to the sounds of their steadying breaths.

“Of course,” she said, laughing a little as she kissed him tenderly. “I couldn’t imagine finding myself elsewhere.” Mischa shifted away from him to pick up her dress, smoothing it out before pulling on her undergarments, pleased to find it wasn’t entirely wrinkled. She helped Nigel dress himself, smoothing out his jacket and combing her fingers through his hair as she stood on her tip-toes to kiss his forehead, relishing in the moments of intimacy she would only ever share with him. Not just the  _ sexual _ closeness, but the simple act of being close to him even in the aftermath. She took his hands in hers once they stood, resting her head on his chest for a moment before looking up at him again.

This was grounding, she thought. Times like these, where she needn’t fear that she was drifting away, swept by an invisible river that left her drowning and without hope in a world so foreign to where she used to call home. At least home was here, she thought. In his arms. In her work, in her hopes and her dreams, and in his companionship now and in their years to come.

“Would you like to go?” she asked once they were dressed and recovered from their enthralling activity.  _ Recovery _ was something that was necessary, she thought with amusement. It was exhausting in a very wonderful way. “There’s no harm in staying here, if you’d like. I’m hungry, thought. We should eat.” Her hand went to her clutch, feeling the gun tucked safely away, hidden from sight. She was glad to have it with her, even if she would still need to learn how to use it properly. It was like having a safety net. 

__

His heartbeat buzzes in his ears, and the floor seemed to tilt so far that he feels he would slide off the couch. Their pressed flesh slowly flutters as if rush of wind had caressed them and the part of his soul  _ ignites _ further as he rides out the intense afterglow. His home, that defended his  _ euphoria _ so fiercely manifests as the haze grows denser and the fond memories of his starts to dissolve into that fog and his skin. Mischa had been the  _ shadow _ by the edge of the couch, the sliver of  _ light _ upon the dimmed stuffiness of the office as she becomes deeply embedded within him as the crisp autumn air does. The mere  _ silhouettes _ of them reminds him of the loveliness of nature and the means to cleansing his soul. 

With every follicle, stubble brushes against Mischa’s cheek, even before he utters a single word of whispering, his own existence and presence expanding like the galaxy, beautiful in its own in his tiny ferocity which seemed happiest when flaming manifests within his  _ gleaming _ hazel pours into her. “You know very well the concept of you is  _ home _ , I’d even find you in the midst of seemingly infinite vastness of the universe as long as I maintain that  _ passionate  _ enthusiasm over you, there would be no stopping on my part.”    

Torpor slowly sets in and before the switch turns off completely, the blackness whizz and hurl him towards the other side as his lips stretch with gleeful  _ mischievousness _ against Mischa’s own, still close to the utterance of the most sweet serenade. Through his heat-flared skin, his fingers zigzag through the buttons as Mischa’s hand smoothes over his own; looking more like the stars splayed upon his broad chest as he reminiscents their younger days with his lips curled up even more dramatically, giving him a pleased and contented air. He could literally feel the curtains  _ undulating _ from the breeze as he had playfully splattered water upon the copper basin, as Hannibal held her from behind. He had been in front of her, half of his limbs already soaked with suds and lukewarm water as streaks of embers painted upon the rippling water with flamboyant orange haloes.  

“I can ask one of the chefs to make the potato dumplings our mama used to make,” he wasn’t exactly a  _ virtuoso _ upon the realm of anything culinary, but associated scents and threaded memories would never disentangle themselves to become separated sensations. His fixated gaze never leaving her as the green flecks hone within the radiance of her curvaceous form, his frolic frame springs off towards the door, his back to the door. “I’ll teach you how to properly shoot the ruger,” he comments, as they had built castles upon each other, a vehement, not quite indestructible, yet fortresses of each other’s.  

___

With a squeeze of her hand, Mischa had to tilt her head to look up at him properly from how close they were standing, content to just rest her head against the crook of his neck for the rest of the night. He was so tall it was really almost comical how she just barely came up to his shoulder when they stood side-by-side. Sighing contentedly, Mischa let out a sleepy, contented yawn before nodding eagerly at his request. Mischa had the feeling they would both be sleeping rather well tonight. She was naturally more introverted than he was, but the social setting was a welcomed change from her daily routine of mostly keeping to herself in her often slow-paced job.

“You can do that?” She smiled broadly, suddenly flooded with pleasant thoughts of home. Mama’s cooking, those dumplings the siblings would beg her to make every night. After she died, Hannibal had attempted to recreate the recipe, and they were  _ almost _ as good. He had been willing to accept that Mama had that touch that no matter how much talent he had, he would never be able to fully recreate. Mischa, too, had attempted the recipe with similar results once Hannibal passed (she does not take the time she nearly burned the kitchen down into account).

“We aren’t waiting for anything then, my dear.” She took his hand and practically dragged him towards the door, suddenly ravenous with hunger. The sudden influx of noise and gyrating bodies was almost startling, but she managed to push through the crowd and up to the bar, encouraging Nigel to make his special request. She would ask him about his real position in this place later: the position that apparently allowed for special cooking requests and his own, private office. Right now, she only really cared about the food.

Leaving her alone, Mischa couldn’t help but feel that familiar prickle on the back of her neck that someone was watching her again, that feeling that made her uneasy and off-put as if the atmosphere in the establishment had somehow changed. This time, she didn’t write it off as paranoia. She whipped her head around, just in time to see a tall, light-skinned man push his way through the crowd and sit beside her. He introduced himself in Italian, but corrected himself to English when he saw she wasn’t a native speaker.

As he spoke, she humored him, smiled nervously, her hand never leaving the clutch by her side, but it was clear what his intentions were as he seemed insistent in talking to her; he wanted to take her home with him, even after her insisting several times that her  _ boyfriend  _ (lover, brother, how else did one describe their relationship to a total stranger?) would be coming back soon, which only seemed to anger him and cause him to grow increasingly aggressive. Mischa was grateful when Nigel finally returned, asking what was going on.

___

The lingering thrumming of his heartbeat grows even more so vociferous and merry, as if his nerves and cells were having a solemn gathering upon, to relish a few moments of affectionateness before they delve into the hubbub of crowds. There would be no  _ poetic _ language, or any of the known one to  _ elaborate _ on such sensation. Perhaps more aware of his raw nakedness than from their fornification. The weight of her head becomes the thousand myriads of sensation, overcoming the finiteness, the gradual end,  _ decay _ ,  _ rot _ and  _ ruin _ he had faced so many times, along with the  _ outlasting _ pain. 

All conceivable, around and inside her, where his own existence and presence comes together and forms a streaking shooting star as it encompasses the vast sky. The concupiscence he holds towards would be evermore  _ potent _ and  _ surreal _ , like an accumulating wave ever growing into its ecstatic  _ crest _ as it sends him crashing, lifting him up in the air to carry him forth towards the glittering spectacle along the water’s edge. 

“It’ll take time to cook it, but I’m more than fucking sure the sous-chef has a ball of risen dough somewhere in the kitchen. It’s readily available,” like the sempiternal tide continuously kissing over the shore, he always finds himself coming back to the rustic and rich dish, full of earthy flavors would sedate his  _ restlessness _ and his  _ adventurous _ spirit down as lush garden of colors spooned over the large bowls. He must be in a paradise, without all the mirages as he  _ intoxicates _ upon her love, coming back to the view as excitement rushes through his cheeks. 

Growing more  _ instinctual _ and  _ visceral _ as ravenous hunger sets in, the deep-rooted yearn to be satisfied overwhelms him as lips quirk upward, drawing a sensuous curve. “Just fucking wait, darling, I’ll make sure to pass on our mama’s set of tricks down to the chef.” Wiping the clinging moisture around the ring of his neck just below his pin-up girl tattoo, he passes the stampeding sensation of a bull turning his insides, with something else other than the lowest hierarchy of need. 

He can’t help but to glance back through the multitudes of the whirling figures, now reduced to darkened shapes under the obsidian dance floor. Only intermittent swipe of flamboyant neon lights would reveal their true nature as he whispers through the bartender’s ear. His reddened skin tinges even deeper with both curiousness and flaming anger as his unblinking laser burns into the back of the man’s head. He hadn’t seen him anywhere and Darko was nowhere to be seen within the premises. Instinctively, his fingers brush against his tucked in revolver as his other hand pushes the man away. “What the fuck? Who the fuck is this? Get the fuck away from her, this babe is my  _ girlfriend _ .” Like a mountainous surge of wave, he headbutts against the other man, as if marking his territory.


	15. Chapter 15

Everything seemed to move very quickly after that.

Mischa yelped, standing up from her chair in such a frenzied hurry that she knocked it over, head whipping between Nigel and the man he had basically just attacked out of nowhere.

“ _ Nigel! _ Oh my God, Nigel, what did you - “ The guy stood up rather quickly, hardly fazed by the swift, yet highly blunt attack that now had Nigel tense with rage and apprehension. Guards were coming, and the man seemed to smile at the sight, licking his lips in Mischa’s direction as he clutched his head, watching them rush to the scene. Mischa, mouth agape in horror and shock and a mix of other tense emotion, watched as the man began yelling across the club. Mischa couldn’t tell if he was drunk or not, but he was very loud and abrasive, even as the victim of Nigel’s assault.

“This man attacked me!” he yelled. “Came right up and headbutted me without any warning. He’s insane, just look at what he did to this poor girl’s arms! If I hadn’t shown up…”

Because in the faint light, the scars could have passed for bruises, and Mischa’s mouth was hanging open. She frantically tried to explain the real situation, but her voice was mumbled and she couldn’t seem to raise it to a volume as the guards began grabbing at Nigel’s arms, preparing to escort him out.

“ _ No!”  _ she rasped. “No, no  _ wait - !” _ She made a move to run after them, but the man had her gripped tightly by the arm, preventing her from going to him. She growled at him to let her go, slamming her fist down on his forearm to little avail. Curse her  _ goddamned _ weakness, her lack of strength that she never inherited from her brothers or mother. Because he wasn’t letting go, and now he was dropping his voice, reassuring her that they would be able to have some alone time as he began pulling her towards the bathroom.

_ This was the wrongful essence of man. This was what girls saw in their nightmares.  _

_ Because when he bent her over and played rough, there was no escaping the inevitability. There was no clawing or talking her way out. There were screams and pleading and finally submission because she was weak and he was strong and drunk and entitled to her body in his own perversion. _

_ ___ _

The forcible headbutt itself doesn’t even daze him as he feels his skin burning away, as if his previous retained wounds had been becoming necrotizing infections under his scorching heat. The flaring anger isn’t manifested through his defined, broad jaw and gritted teeth; the past doesn’t define him and he will be always changing like the unfathomable depth of the deep ocean, but that didn’t mean he will be  _ imperturbable _ . 

He will  _ burn _ and burn out, and through the recurring occurrences, the weight of the violence would pool in his stomach through his thudding heart, tight chest and spinning head. Moving in a pre-established calculation in autopilot, his form becomes the  _ supernova _ , full of untamed spitfire that would continually smell like  _ blood, bones _ and  _ shattered teeth _ . The kind of anger that is akin to the fury of the seas, but burning makes a permanent impression behind his hazel.  

“She’s my fucking  _ girlfriend _ , I wouldn’t dare lay a fucking hand on her -” The guards’ restraining arms agglomerate his resounding fury as it acts as the harbinger. He could feel his conscience snap like a toothpick as the  _ unbridled  _ savagery unfurls like a staccato along the vastness of the galaxy. The private carnage upon bodily agony and intoxicatingly livid bruises that would mimic that of the carnal pleasure of honey and gracefulness. If he would ever paint Mischa with such colors, they would both be guilty as charged as they would be each other’s fever dream. 

“Be dears and  _ fuck off  _ already before I shoot out your fucking knee caps,” delirium always follows him, that need to extirpate and watch the thin veil of wretched civilization fall so readily away beneath his arsonistic violence. Immediately grabbing his revolver, which had been safely tucked away against his back as the hard grip connects to the burly men’s jawline in  _ successive _ jabs, he staggers after being reciprocated with equal bloodstained hands as he tastes the salt and violence within his veins. It calls for an wrecking obliteration.

This is his domain,  _ smooth _ and  _ effective _ . His knuckles stain with crimson, becoming the sumptuous nectar before he notices Mischa’s absence. His non-compromising determination overwhelms his outnumbered vexation. However perverse and frenzied it is, he’ll continue stitching up the lacerations people incise on his heart.  _ Until his damned heartbeats stop.  _

With his inquisitorial confrontation and his fundamental instinct, it doesn’t take much long until the stars tonight further thins themselves out. In the men’s bathroom, Nigel flinches rather uncharacteristically as he watches the unbreakable pulsating spasm coursing through the man behind Mischa’s bent over form, as angrily protruding cords and veins of his body jumps on its own.    One to maintain his absolute  _ nonchalance _ when he kills, he is utterly subjugated by the incinerating stream of fizzing explosion. Even before the wretched realization strikes his skull, he’s quick to react as his mind’s instinctiveness moves his physical form; an ear-splitting gunshot to the man’s gut as viscous fluid continues to dribble, then to the man’s temple as he embraces Mischa within his torso in  _ solicitude _ , hoping the disturbance wouldn’t be further damaging to her ravaged form. 

____

Like a flash of a night terror, the white-hot pain that was spreading through her abdomen came to a sudden halt. There was noise, terrible, loud noise that ricocheted in less than a second through the once-empty bathroom. There was Nigel, holding a gun and looking angry and horrified and paralyzed and in absolute ruin. There was the man, once standing over her, now crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood. Her dress was splattered with it, too. Red on white. Mischa couldn’t even scream.

Hand pressed to her mouth, her knees buckled and went weak, and Nigel’s arms were around her in an instant. She didn’t hug him, merely allowed herself to be held. She felt cold, and his embrace couldn’t warm her. Nothing really felt entirely real, as if she were watching herself through a foggy window from the outside in. Standing in his arms with her dress hiked up to her hips, splattered in blood. Exhausted. Numb. Mischa blinked and suddenly felt very, very sick to her stomach, as if she might vomit. Pushing him away, she staggered to the toilet and gripped the cold edges, her stomach retching but refusing to release its contents. She sat there for a moment, willing herself to throw up, having half a mind to make herself do it if not for the fact that Nigel was standing behind her, even if he felt a thousand miles away.

There were voices and commotion soon after, but she couldn’t really make out what they were saying. Something about getting out, taking care of “the mess”, about speaking about this “incident” later. When Nigel’s hands were on her again, Mischa sensed that perhaps it was time to leave, although she would have been content lying on the dirty bathroom floor for as long as was needed. So she shook her head, not wanting to move or to breathe or to exist, wanting someone to simply do the work for her as her stomach heaved and retched again, forcing her to claw at the toilet only to have nothing come up.

It wasn’t enough. Even if she had chosen to force her fingers down her throat, it wouldn’t have made anything go away. Nothing would be different. She couldn’t even look Nigel in the eye as the tips of her hair grew wet with the toilet water, her fingers feeling numb and cold as his voice grew more and more distant with each passing moment.

___

He had accustomed to years of living with a slatted adamantine cage of his ribs when Mischa had been absent from his grasp. If he had lived through desperately clutching the splitting images of her, as his severed connections continues to warp his perception and the erosion of her presence keeping him widely awake at night, he would live through this,  _ but could she? _

He was used to  _ idly _ gazing into the recurrent images of undulating mirage, the only tangible sensation that he had been aware, painfully striking against everything else which would negate the sense of gravity is his own fingers tightened around the bottleneck of already bone-dry whiskey, enough to dig his talon-like fingers and shatter the curve of the glass. The mere thought of her name immediately turned  _ salt _ . 

_ He feels rooted in place. And no earthquake could have moved him.  _

Yet, her push makes him to spiral down into the vortex of raw nakedness and through the emptiness of the void, that scary vulnerability that he feared of letting overcome him in entirety. He could hear thousands of  _ shrieks _ becomepyromaniacs, that would set him on fire and leave him burning. 

Even the streaked blood all over the side of his face and his dripping sweat doesn’t change his sangfroid impression, turning the thrumming chambers into frigid ice in a heartbeat. The unfurled view crushes him with every breath and those ventricles tighten with every heartbreak he had endured through with the same recurring intensity. 

Drowning with bleak darkness and equal dreary whirl of snowdrift continuing to entrap him as more sound gushes from the cage within his ribs, his quivering muscles recalls thousands of memories, ingrained through the healed scars. The relic of their war as they emerged victorious and in triumph. But now, the abyss lingers and this becomes an enigma; of their own worlds, where they had buried their sins, fears and secrets of taboo hidden by the darkest of the very night. It wouldn’t be ideal for him to linger, yet that is the last thing on his mind; he would ravage a massacre if he has to, with the heap of the expired body continues to gush blood like his mind does miasmic fog. 

At least it’d be better than falling into nothingness, the nihility of ruinous sorrow and uncontainable fury and all that. 


	16. Chapter 16

Weary in heart and bones, Mischa shoved herself away from the bowl and forced herself to stand. Everything hurt, both inside and out, and her skin was chilled over to a numbing point. She could feel it through the marrow of her bones, straight to her lungs and through the chambers of her heart. She felt nothing when she eventually looked up through her stringy, bloody hair, straight at Nigel where he looked equally as broken as she felt. Mischa feared to touch him again, knowing she would not be able to bear reaching for him and feeling nothing at all.

“I want to go home.” It hurt to talk, so she didn’t. It hurt to think. So she didn’t. Fearful of touching him, Mischa stepped over the body on the floor (she assumed someone would be in to take care of that, there was always someone to take care of these sorts of things, wasn’t there? Murder was such an easy way to make a living these days…) She could hardly look at him. He didn’t deserve such coldness from her. She couldn’t even make use of the gift he bought her.

Two men were standing outside the bathroom, guarding it’s entrance. This must have been what “taking care of it” was. Or part of it, anyhow. Mischa didn’t really care, only focused on not staring at his wide, unseeing eyes that still shone in glassy focus. Trying to avoid Nigel’s gaze lost in his helplessness. Trying to avoid every pair of eyes that bore into her skull, piercing the arteries of her conscience. Whispering their judgments and pity, crushing her under a weight of unbearable silence. She wouldn’t be able to handle their voice, either, if she were to be entirely truthful.

Her fingers gripped her clutch tightly. The gun concealed inside mocked her, and she wanted to scream. 

It was time to go home. Back to Lithuania, back to the castle with Mama and Papa and Hannibal sketching in the kitchen, back to Mama’s wonderful cooking and Papa’s piano playing. Back to Nigel, trying to steal cookies from the jar and Mischa running through the kitchen, pretending to be an airplane trying to catch bubbles with star-shaped hands, yelling that her dress was dirty and writing in her journal about it years later.

She realized there was no home to go to, though. Not anymore, anyway.

___

Words rise in him, fills his mouth and pushes against his tenaciously set, refusing to let his lips tremble as the flaring heat presses against the bridge of his nose. He swallows, forcing them down, but they end up tearing at his throat. A strange noise escapes from him, something like a battle-raged cry. The tears streaming from his eyes were acid, etching away and burning his cheeks. His mouth fills with liquid, both  _ bile _ and  _ blood _ . They are the most  _ saltiest _ he had shed.  _ Corrosive _ yet sweet. The only steady rhythm of his pulsing heart and uniform breathing signified the life it contained; where everything was splendidly and lifelessly still and flat, it was Mischa’s voice that surged him out of void within his subconsciousness. 

Even when he could literally feel the repulsiveness surging into her throat, Mischa continued to carry herself with rather impassive composure. It was nothing more, nothing less; the body’s obstinate resistance that defied the barren chest. He’s just empty-handed with unfulfilled promises of the night with no previous glories or triumphs. The music of the night might be still turned up, blaring through the screaming and  _ disquietude _ mind, yet the world of noise couldn’t liberate him from his wrecked ponderance. 

He doesn’t even care if there are more of those lowlife skunks;  _ as long as he’s still hanging on by a thread, before someone takes an opportune moment to sever the cord permanently. _ They weren’t the ones he had familiarized before; knowing if he hadn’t been so enraptured within the big mess of hurricane with already drawn revolver which had became his everything; where saturated waves of the flaring temper had been prevented to become such projected images, where more empty vessels echo through the space in his heart, they would’ve had tried to kill him. 

_ Just how many more years’ of a life’s apprenticeship did he, did they have to go through until the lingering concept of death, threaded upon their Lecter blood would stop screaming, screech and shriek with the trifecta of insanity? _

He had persevered the demons that lurked, hidden beneath the cracks of his pupils, lined with charred ashes of the past. Hannibal’s gravestone had been laid, he had dreamt of the wrinkled petals, darkened and withered with age. Mischa’s and his shared energies entwined to become something entirely else as their fingers intertwined. 

All the remorse without the persistent strength as he walks away,  _ still _ empty-handed and utterly alone in a foreign, desolate land.  

___

And so, he took her home. The walk back was heavy and solitary, despite the physical companionship of another being beside her. Was this what Nigel was reduced to now? Just a body by her side, with no emotional reaction or awareness of his living form? The thought horrified her, but she could not shake the fact that she felt nothing. Not gratitude, not love, not safety nor fear. There was nothing at all, not even some inkling of a negative emotion, as if he deserved any of that. It would have been better, though. Better than this. Mischa blinked hard, once, twice and then again, as if trying to stimulate some sort of pulse in her lifeless, walking corpse, and yet nothing prevailed.

Back at the apartment, Mischa set her clutch down on the table. She was alarmingly aware of how Nigel seemed to sense her state of being, this utter emotional shut-down that she could not control nor did she willingly allow. Mischa didn’t know if this was, indeed, a good thing or not, but it made her aware that she was, at least, a real human being. Tethered to the earth by strings of invisible wire, Nigel at the very least could see her, even if when she looked into the mirror in the living room, she could only see a blur of red and white and dirty yellow, blending together like a sick mirage of color and glassy eyes.

She walked into their room and left the door open as she discarded her bloody dress, aware that her thighs, too, had dried blood around her vulva where he had ravaged her. At least that blood was her own. At least, Mischa thought dimly, that was something that wasn’t tainted by another person.  Mischa stood in her underwear, arms wrapped around her chest, closing her eyes and breathing in and out, in and out again to try and focus on what was here. She was in their room. There was a booklet of poems by her side of the bed. Nigel’sgloves were by his. Nigel himself was standing beside her, watching her. She was aware of his fear and hesitation to approach her, less she shut him away again. Nigel.  _ Nigel. _ Mischa was wearing a white bra and dark purple, cotton panties. Another breath, in and out.

_ Their bed was unmade. In and out. _

_ The carpet was brown. In and out. _

_ Mischa’s journal was inside her vanity table. In and out. _

_ Nigel was with her. In and out. _

She turned to look at him, then, arms still wrapped around her own torso as if trying so desperately to keep in what was so easily taken away. His eyes were sad, and she realized that this made her sad, too. Emotion.  _ Something. _ And still, she felt so cold.

_ Come here, _ she thought.  _ I see you. Come here. _

_ ___ _

Contained within an empty shell of his glorious self, Nigel’s usually predatory, hazel irises glinting with fierce consumption now conveys a complete depletion, the  _ absence _ of both intimidation and letting the opposition know how his usual unquenchable bloodlust takes over his aura. His identity resonates in his being; every  _ appendage _ and every ounce of  _ flesh _ . The feeling remains stagnant, festering in petrification, even. Despite Mischa still standing warm merely a few inches from him and as much as he lives in the dark and blaze of the gravitational center, her, he fears the accidental collision would cause both of them to perish forever. 

Then, his gaze falls away from her.  _ Afraid that she’ll flake and wither away if he ever touched her where his blackened mind matches that of a ominous obsidian of the night.  _

His shoulders slouch as he feels the torn stitches within the chambers of his mind spil more crimson, dripping with chunks of his  _ heart _ and his world. Pallid and ever so trembling form the lingering silence of the raging storm as the presence of it overwhelms him, he slumps even more as the innate warmth suddenly surrounds him as the embers from the hearth of his mind crackles and bursts. It makes him to lose his breath each time as he’s being dismantled in a tainted layer of snow, unperturbed but only with his hot stream of blood painted across the pristine white sparkles and reflects the celestial bodies, too incandescent and extraordinarily dazzling to look at, yet with every breath he takes becomes a sharp silvery knife wounding him from the inside out. 

Back at the apartment, he could feel the mountain rumble and finally crumble down. All the vehement rocks and its jagged edges, they  _ corrode _ and  _ reduce _ . His obsidian heart wane and wax -  _ acid and bile pouring out from every pore, debilitating.  _

_ She who gives him the strength is now his weakness.  _

He looks at his reflected self before diverting his gaze towards the growing flame, his fluttering, pulsing heart screams that it was his own goddamn fault. His own slanting shadow looking smaller than ever as he scrutinizes every discernible edge of it. Like a wax doll left open in the scorchers; his form neglected, particles slivering off and finally, melting beyond reparation. 

Clarity escapes, yet his movement propels in autopilot as he yanks off his bloodied button-down and trousers,  _ the article fixating on living nightmares.  _

_ Is it all just a dream? Based on a fucking wrecked fantasy? _

_ Would he ever rebuild the heart that had been trampled beneath me? _

Wiping the seeping blood from his face, he feels as if he’s standing by the eroding edge of the cliff. And his impulse is to take that plunge, yet he’s unwilling to leave. So he tugs onto that lifeline with gaping stitches of his fingers, wiping off such vile contemptuousness from her, fearing that if he got too close, she will become that very dried-off blood flakes and forever fade away.  


	17. Chapter 17

Bypassing his gaze, Mischa discarded her underwear, shivering in the still air of the room. She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders and stretching out her neck, closing her eyes as she ran her fingers through her long hair. Matted and bloody, it took a moment to be able to comb her way through her hair, but the dull stabs of pain where he fingers caught on a snag was welcoming, allowing her head to grow a little clearer. Physical pain was real, concrete and a very human experience, and she relished it as she worked to make her hair look somewhat decent again. Later, she would take a shower and watch the blood run down the drain, both hers and her attackers’, thus ridding herself of any physical trace of him even though he would always be there. The ache in her vulva was still there. Her knees were bruised from where she collapsed on the bathroom floor like a limp ragdoll. Although those pains would, in time, fade, she would always remember the pain as if the simple feeling of it had threatened her life.

Right now, all she wanted was to rest. For even though she felt entirely vulnerable, she still couldn’t shake the image of the man’s glassy eyes as he laid dead on the ground from her mind. She feared she would see it in her nightmares, and perhaps she would. It was just another battle, just another addition to the halted process of healing that she felt had taken years to build. She wouldn’t allow herself to be shattered, even if she was being held together by nothing more than imaginary string.

Mischa kicked her clothes aside, feeling smaller than even before. There was something good, she thought, in standing there completely exposed, fingers tracing down her chest and hips as she examined herself for any further damage. There were no bruises aside from the ones between her thighs, no additional blood that wasn’t her own. No pairs of eyes on her aside from the one person in the world she trusted, not looking upon her in hunger but in understanding and wary hesitation. He was letting her breathe, and although she hadn’t spoken in the past hour, he understood. A deep breath, before Mischa lowered her arms and crawled into bed, laying on her side with her limbs curled close to her chest. She stared at the wall for a moment, before closing her eyes, letting herself take in the notion that she was home now. 

_ She was safe and she wasn’t alone. _

_ ___ _

It is a constant struggle - he was witnessing the  _ rosebuds _ slowly withering, losing its critical essence as the most resilient flower he associated was deteriorating within his fleeting grasp.  _ His monument of inevitability and an unavoidable fate that transcends flesh and bone. Strokes upon his artwork with sincere love and determined passion, beauty, courage and respect. _ They were both losing the sight of the star-struck skies as the distance furthers with the hesitant and slowed steps he takes; he feels drowning in bed of roses, her permeated and fleeing scents before she perishes forever in his grasp. Choking to find the comfort he always bathed in, the nurturing dominance of her as he felt powerless than ever before. 

None of the half-savage, half-sweet expression he wore at all times, with a bravado of a gun-toting kingpin with his revolver twirling around his middle finger like it had been a toy. No cock-eyed, crooked smile of his charming facade either. 

_ Wasn’t he like the hardened warrior who went through hell and back?  _

He was already in Valhalla, _ the hall of the slain,  _ suppose to be known as very majestic and enormous hall, filled with heroes, kings and beasts like him. Now there was nothing grandeur about that and the concept has been always clear as mud to him. Whatever he did since adolescent years as he had inevitably parted the way with his sister numerous times as he took on a notorious profession, day in, day out, he would be marred and scarred with combat. Even the slightest  _ provocation _ kindling the unquenchable fire within him. As much as he had been very expressive and more or less genuine, his uncompromising nature, standoffish persona and his basilisk stare, a hint of animosity and malignancy eating him away like a contagion sweeping through his body, metastasizing through his organs. 

And there was nothing to shut this fucking self-defecating escape hatch; there was nothing to ground him and his viewfinder grows murky with the room still an overload of both familiar and unknown faces and even when he’s at his most  _ vulnerable _ state, these  _ fluctuating _ walls become too close on his skin. His soul’s light fading out, with his progressive lucidity, their shared moments and embarked adventures yellowing and reducing to ashes. 

_ His glowing, innate warmth wouldn’t be enough.  _

Retrieving a damp, warm towel as to melt away the jagged prickles upon her violated flesh, his gaze traces to their concept of forgotten love; faded and lost as he attempts to gather the dust together. If only could they be forgotten to the world and never to each other, if none of the words refusing to leave his closed-up throat. They become the echoes of long-time conversation which they have had held before. 

Instead of his flesh, the fiber itself becomes the substitute agent as the graffiti upon her skin becomes untouched and undying. With the nurturer nestled in his gossamer touch, as he nestles close to the mercy of the world. 

___

And in this gesture, Mischa would begin to breathe again. Not all at once, not in any short period of time, but indeed she would begin. She truly could drag herself to shore, even if she had to do it a million times, if it was for someone who cared as deeply for her as she did for them. Rebound from the blistering wound, grow again from where she was so cruelly trampled like a forgotten weed. Even if it would take time. And time it would indeed take.

Two weeks later, Mischa was able to start doing basic tasks again. The fog would clear just enough for her to be able to do her own laundry without tiring quickly, eat more than just a half a meal a day, smile when Nigel said something ridiculous. She still wouldn’t allow herself to touch any alcohol, as afraid as she was of becoming unknowingly dependant on the harsh substance.  Nigel in turn would keep it locked away and only drink when she went to work or when she wasn’t around to avoid any unnecessary incidences of self-medication. And in doing all of these things, Mischa would feel again, better, if still not entirely normal. Prolonged periods of silence were inevitable. Her stopping what she was doing in the middle of a task still an instance that she had difficulty controlling.

But it was a Sunday morning when she woke up beside him and asked him, rather bluntly, to teach him how to properly shoot her gun.  She stood next to him, still in her nightgown, gun held in both of her hands flat against her palms. _I want to learn,_ she said, _so that I can defend myself next time._ _So that there will never be a next time._

“Today. Can we do it today?” It was the most she had spoken at once since the incident, and her face was set in determination. The feeling of numbness was still entirely present, and she still felt entirely too separate from her own body and thoughts to feel entirely comfortable facing the outside world with confidence. But remaining cooped up in the apartment wasn’t helping anything at all; not for her, and not for Nigel, although he would never admit it. The small weapon in her hands was alien and foreign, and still didn’t feel like it was wholly hers. Mischa wanted that to change.

___

His voice is just a little louder than a whisper as a sickle moon overhead them hangs with a different monstrosity than what he had ever witnessed. It seems to recite a long poem that his highly intuitive mind had concocted all these years and more than the unforgiving sunlight sneering down in the height of the afternoon, the precipice of reality seems to kindle its fire. Plummeting through the open winds of  _ judgment _ ; they would never be entirely liberated from it. Yet, that fery flame isn’t hot just yet. The  _ ruthlessness _ will soon come and he could feel it in the air. His voice tinges with gold sunsets before, yet his blood feels cold nonetheless and his scalp tinges with incinerating heat. “Just like the fresh autumn wind, you’ll prevent my overshadowing darkness to dissipate and awaken the sides I never knew it could be polished with radiant brilliance.” 

_ He very much knows she won’t break; through her resounding fragility like undulating glass, she won’t ever shatter and break through her weakness.  _

His heart continues to bleed with stretch of time, just like how she bleeds through the words on her journal, reaching its end. Perhaps another lavish gift was on her way; a personalized journal when speaking out became too much of a burden. His own heart bleeds for her in onslaught of emotion, which still ravages through his body.  _ Molded, hardened, reshaped _ and made even more _ strong _ . Soldered through excruciating heat to triumph once again. He’ll be sempiternally surrounded by heatwave of  _ limerence _ , because of her. 

Because what had happened at the club, he had been taking the unwanted break from working the night shifts, and had been sneaking out when Mischa was at work to take on more clandestine endeavor; the true colors of his heart spilling as the characteristically silent whoosh of the bullet takes its aimed projectile right through the intervention. He would wear the scent of gunpowder as his skin soaks in the mid-afternoon sun.  _ Silence _ filled the residence, they were floating in the open ocean as small waves beat on the beach as they had orbited around their shared wounds, _ their alchemy of love.  _

Mischa’s words had been etched upon him like the warmth of the strong coffee scent. Only clad in his boxer briefs and sipping on the mug before slipping on his light sweater, he penetrates through the glistening of her eyes and hears the thrill in her voice; much more passionate and somewhat urgent. Eyes honing to a fine point, yet encompassing it all like the stars blanketing the night sky, he smiles his usual crooked one and retrieves his own revolver. 

“Be a darling and grab more of those empty bottles and cans, I’ll finish setting up what I have on the roof.”


	18. Chapter 18

And thus, her mouth stretched into an actual smile, as she was genuinely happy that he so willingly agreed to the task. She moved  _ with purpose _ , hurrying into the small kitchen where the recycling was to go out with the trash, gathering up the bottles of soda (no beer; that was still banned from the house in a silent, unspoken agreement between the two) and cans of some strange Italian drink Nigel had picked up earlier that week on his way home from work. There were at least seven, and Mischa held them in her arms in reminiscence of her childhood days where she tried to carry every toy she owned into her brothers’ room.

_ This is how much I’ll pay you for the cupcakes, _ she told them, hoping that they’d steal one for her as they had themselves. She had dumped her old dolls and model airplanes onto the floor as they laughed. Mischa had pouted, and ended up taking one for herself that day.

“Up on the–  _ oh! _ Yeah…” She was pretty sure they’d be breaking at least four laws, as firing weaponry upon a rooftop was often frowned upon, but she didn’t care at this point. She was actually excited. She dressed herself quickly, pulling on a long skirt and comfortable button-down. Hurrying out the door and up the fire escape, Mischa hadn’t bothered to put on shoes as she made her ascent. The cool metal steps felt good against her feet, the rough concrete even better. Sensation. Temperature difference. The wind up above that shifted its way between buildings and through open windows.  _ The beauty of late summer in Florence. How wonderful it was to feel the wind on my face. _

She set them up on the concrete blocks that served as power posts, fingers brushing against the gun in her pocket. Something that served a purpose to kill. Nigel had such an affinity for calculated destruction, even as a small boy. She would never understand it. As amusing as it was, it sometimes frightened her how Nigel seemed to have come into the world, knowing how a million ways to break a toy structure, a damn in the creek, or a person’s life.

But there would be no better teacher.

___

The real world honed around him, threatening to close around and suffocate him, but he wasn’t going to sit idle like a fucking pathetic loser and await his preordained fate. Even when the air seems to leave him with every swift strike he feels upon his own brokenness over her ravaged state,  _ he’s always going to be the determined moth flying into a hot lightbulb _ , seeking his resounding innateness, that inextinguishable fire sweeping through his skin as the flame itself becomes the emollient force upon the shattered heart before. Even when it had conspired to keep lovers apart and keep their hearts at bay, _ the kindest hearts had the most imperfections. _

And all those unknown and untraceable phone calls linger within his hazel, accompanied by a hint of sadness and moroseness. There would be no means to exaggerate the beneficial effects of falling in love, or rather, the deleterious influence of it.  _ Where the reality and boundary begins to mingle and blur; _ and consequently, the fostered tears that had been shed in streams and the smiles that shined with such luminescence could cease to exist altogether at any given moment. 

No, he would continue to live undaunted by the world as he had already read between the lines of the nature of those calls. He briefly stares out the window. _ A penny for your thoughts.  _ No more re-recording of their past, for they could rebuild and the chambers of his hearts would strengthen with renewed sense of brevity. 

Still a bit engaged in that preoccupation, but flinging a genuine grin at her direction, he slips on one of his more straight-fit trousers, comfy enough to lounge and maneuver around and attempts to give her a hand, but her form simply blurs in front of him like a mirage, or more like a fleeting heatwave of the summer solstice. She’s literally an embodiment of the buzzing light and her effervescence wipes off more weighty seriousness of the matter. 

None of the two-dimensionality of being suffocated with drowning blue never existed, as once he steps outside, everything suddenly unfolds in three-dimensional and everything becomes so much more real. Whirling colors and shapes that dance through the ambiance is incomparable. 

“First rule, keep your fingers off the muzzle or trigger at all times and it is imperative you fully expose the entire cylinder before loading your bullets, capiche?” The moment when he feels most human; as they seem to be on the same wavelength. a bit of ray penetrating through him,  _ unraveling his humanity. _

___

Kneeling beside him, Mischa gripped the weapon lightly (had he been the one who told her that gripping the handle tightly was not good? She wasn’t sure.) and focused on her targets about ten meters away. She did as she was told; fingers off the trigger, cylinder exposed, bullets loaded one by one. It was slow work, getting use to the weapon in her hands, memorizing it’s details with her fingertips, knowing that what she was holding was a weapon meant to kill.

She inhaled, closing the cylinder efficiently once it was loaded with six rounds. Holding the gun, the bottles seemed very far away all of a sudden; Nigel said that if she could effectively hit one, she’d be able to hit nearly anything. Sitting by his side, hearing his voice so close to her ear,  _ guiding  _ her, allowed her to feel confident in the endeavor. From weakness to strength. From silence to empowerment; he was patient with her, endlessly. She fired and missed the first few times she tried, but she grit her teeth and  _ kept going. _

Again.  _ Again.  _ He placed his hand over hers, gentle and feather-light, guiding her hand and easing her to breathe, to relax her taught muscles and keep her body loose and focused. She breathed deeply, exhaled, and fired again. This time, the bottle exploded upon impact, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. She grinned and fired again. Another bottle, glass shards rocketing outward, far enough away that they needn’t worry about being hit. 

She felt proud of herself, as she rightfully should be, according to Nigel, even if there was still much more practice to be done. She sighed, turning her head to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. The sun was setting over Florence, and the city was still entirely alive and filled to the brim with bustling vitality. Far below, cars and people filled the beautiful streets and sidewalks, and they remained unnoticed and alone with each other. Placing the small weapon on the roof tile beside her, she rested her head on his shoulder as he lit a cigarette between his teeth. The silence, after what seemed like an eternity, wasn’t oppressive or filled with worry and broken resolve; this was how they should be.

“Thank you, dear.”

___

His eyes seem to touch everywhere, just like how an eagle scouts and keeps everything at its bay.  _ Whole another world, different dimension. _ Giving her a glimpse of the other side of the realm he took his presence in. With his own gun safely tucked against the dimple of the spine, his maverick predilection of violence and nonconformity negates upon Mischa’s presence, a single panacea for his every fault. 

_ Didn’t he thirst for her imprints of hearts, where the world had been so quiet and mundane without her, yet the thrums of vibrant city never shut up with his love illumination, lighting the darkness as it enticed him in a paroxysmal euphoria?  _ Perhaps the simple act of letting her peer into this side of his persona wasn’t as simple as that. For every trick he would teach her would become his trudging footsteps, in the world full of violence and menace where budding bruise-blue streaks with gusto and consumes anyone. It could simultaneously relieve the clutches of despair and bring forth one, brought upon their brother’s death. 

His heart paints continuous masterstrokes of aches and throbs as he offers him as a stronghold. “Keep your arm straight at all times. You’ll feel the recoil shaking through every fucking inch of your muscle, through the fibers until it reaches the back of your skull. You can use that kick to calculate the energy, so to speak, if one gets familiar with it with the repeated usage.” 

The puffing smoke, traversing through the still air that tasting like swallowing fire (to him, at least), as he breaths in become so real, but at the same time, about world’s galaxies away. Every distinctive gunfire contained the essence of the shooter’s spirit; mostly animosity, a resounding determination to end the wretched life before one, it could be hesitancy and a single drop of  _ benevolence  _ and positive  _ emotion _ that would reek through the swoosh that would cause anyone to miss. 

Shards of glass become fireworks upon the golden flame sweeping over the Florentine residence and she becomes the  _ radiant sun  _ on the darkening night. The rush of nicotine, lingering gunsmoke upon his fingertips and sleeves as he had been the one behind the trigger. Her kiss touches upon his soul as the quietness sets in. 

“You’ll find your method,  _ darling _ , through the freedom of how you express your language through the barrel.” Another deeper, more charged with a hint of desperation, pivots his hips as he holds the stick between his fingers. 


	19. Chapter 19

_ Arm straight. Eyes steady. Hands still. In and out. Squeeze the trigger, focus your sight. Find your method. In and out. This is for you. In and out. _

_ In and out. _

She was getting better as the sky grew darker and darker still, but Mischa knew, like all things, it would take time. Everything, from her wounds to her fears, to her development of her love for Nigel, took time. In time, Florence had become their home in time. Lithuania’s tragic shadow of their past had faded, all in good time. Mischa was a patient girl. There was no need to rush, was there? They had nothing they needed to speed their lives up for. It was nice to take their time.

Taking him in her arms, Mischa kissed him for the first time since the incident, relishing in the breeze that tossed her hair over their faces like a curtain of gossamer in the wind.  _ She took her time.  _ Cupped his face, tasted his lips, muscles taught even when she urged herself to be free. Chasing something that was bigger than her, bigger than the both of them. A sense of freedom they’d yearned for their whole lives.

“I think we’re due for a break,” she said  arms still wrapped around his neck. She rested her forehead against his, breathing  _ in and out _ as she relished in the warmth radiating from his skin.  _ Darling. Nigel, my dear. _ Kneeling beside him, her knees aching from rough tiles of the rooftop above the city, Mischa at least felt she could think again. The world wasn’t ending after all, so it seemed. Such a curious notion. She had grown quite used it.

Brushing her lips against his jaw, Mischa wound her fingers through his and kissed his ear, his neck, the corner of his mouth, feeling warmth drip into her veins with each touch of his skin. She was laughing again, quietly, with tears dripping down her cheeks. But laughing all the same.

___

As the darkness sank down to the horizon further away, beyond the Duomo as zigzagging velocity of the bullets left fingerprints of lightning, sizzling through the sky as casings scattered around them like burnt matches. The flaring rage and all the other accumulated emotions, from the darkened corners of dimmed rooms in his mind metamorphoses into the dried roses, retaining all of their intense passion within the warmth of his palms. 

_ Lapsing and relapsing _ , with each projection splitting through still musty air of the late summer aggravated the loud humming on the sides of his brain. Slowly moving inward, the repeated act itself and how Mischa was empowering behind the weapon of dominance, the anticipation of stubborn threads of their past shattering and scattered upon the view deemed for derivative of time.  

_ No more of the hopelessness and abandonment. _ Didn’t they face enough of the distressing emotion with impending danger as pain still weighed heavily upon their hearts like a sinking anchor? None of the things were easy to admit, he was too stubborn and showing signs of weakness didn’t exactly translate to being strong at all. However, being a creature of emotion meant that he was indeed enslaved by it.  _ It was out of his control. _

Her skin wanders, then drags with purpose and the twinkling shine visible beneath her eyes confirm that his Mischa had returned. Even when they were turning into crumbled leaves in the palms of the world, they didn’t reduce down to disintegrate, down to the state where they couldn’t be fixed. It was contagious, like two chemicals meeting to elicit such a reaction that would drown the whole world. 

“This is all I ever fucking wanted,” a slow fill of his lungs, letting himself brim with her luminescence as she seemed to touch everywhere at once. “When you leap my heart beyond where I end and where you begin, then that’s all I want to sink myself into.”  _ Simply holding hands, letting the words of their names flood and bask over them like worn sheets as trickles of desire condenses as their bodies mingle.   _

___

“I’m sorry I’ve been pushing you away. It’s not what I wanted, I –” Mischa was stumbling over her tongue, too entrapped by her own confusing array of emotions and fumbling words. She sighed and pulled him into a hug, only wanting to hold him against her for as long as she could. This was a moment she would effectively store into her own memory place, something she would fight to hold onto for as long as she still could. She never wanted to feel  _ nothing _ again. It was a terrible pattern she had found herself drawn into since their parents died, and for many years, each moment was a never-ending fight to embrace the moment in whole.

And each time she was plunged into another pit of sorrow and hurt, it felt like someone had pressed a reset button on her life, sending her back to the fearful, trembling teen that she had once been with no direction in the world. When they had escaped the Verger farm, Mischa had a purpose, being that she would need to care for Nigel less he die from his injuries. She hadn’t been able to withdraw, and time and time again he would prove to be the anchor that held her ashore.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that. I should’ve talked to you, this past week has just been…I can still still feel him, Nigel. I don’t understand why it happened and I have been trying to process it and nothing has been helping. This helped. Being outside helped, not feeling so  _ powerless _ …has helped.” Mischa kissed him again, tenderly, trying not to allow her tears to spill over her weary eyes.

“God…Nigel, I never want to feel that way again. Never.” The thought of slipping away again terrified her, even if she didn’t tell him that precisely. She felt like a dead girl walking. Being alive was entirely too wonderful for her to flicker out into a walking corpse of someone she used to be.

___

_ How would he ever express such stupefying, unfurling emotion that no language could express? _ She had invaded his life with such bleeding heart and silent poems, as the veins etched around it had been a particularly emotionally charged brush, causing him to rupture and hemorrhage inside. The past week had been like being locked in a frigid hell with threading ice crystals, the jagged edges penetrating him and he could only make the sound of his wretchedly beating heart, signalling his continuance in tangible reality. As if his hazel had grown fuzzy, forever wearing the hazy filter as he continued to seriously question whether his presence had been real. 

An empty casing without his fundamental warmth, he was cold all at once and the awareness of his body fleetingly dissipated along with the deafening silence they both embodied. More like a fragmented bullet, as shrapnels tore him down without the exit wound, muddling the insides of his cranium in crimson watery discharge. The haunting scene of Mischa’s assault aggravated an air of abysmal  _ melancholy _ and  _ brood _ . They were often reminded of such weakness and even when he had exerted vengeance,  _ mentality was a powerful thing _ , it would hold an unbreakable leash upon the body as it put up a defiant disobedience. 

“I would’ve done the fucking same, a confinement of contrasts, where endless battle between sanity and breakdown would shout their en garde’s, lifting their gleaming, silver blades. There would be no forfeiting it. Either you overcome it or you succumb to it,”  _ but then, the memory would be forever etched, inflicted upon the inadvertent flutters, such withered expanse of the skin would remember.  _

“You felt the fucking explosion in the sky and was hurtled away from my orbit, not anymore.” The words always gets stuck in his throat and he desperately wishes it would check out,  _ sempiternally _ , as long as he stays close to her like a protective shadows, hovering around her at all times, even when knowing nothing would be eternal. 

Mischa’s kiss unburdens the weight threaded upon the vessel of his heart. “Let me  _ quell _ that powerlessness for once and for all. I want to be that flickering, blazing heat upon that fucking contemptible muscle memory. I can amend that.” Lips ajar, savoring the syllables she breathed in him as pleading hazel looks down upon her. This would be his  _ pledge _ , that he’ll tread and trudge with her no matter the depth, the labors of their unconventional lives. 


	20. Chapter 20

Mischa felt like she was memorizing his body all over again, his broad hands and shoulders, hair that was always such a mess no matter how much she fussed over it. Stunning hazel eyes, so much like their father’s that Hannibal had once shared. God, did she really forget? Was a single week enough to make every good memory something that had to be learned all over again? Momentarily alarmed, Mischa jerked her hand, panicking that she would be  _ back there _ all over again, unable to feel or move or show any sign that she was entirely present in the land of the living.

_ But fear was irrelevant, for there was nothing left to frighten her.  _ There was the setting sun, the noises of a city alive, and her hands gripping his shoulders, his shirt, his hair, grabbing at him and pulling him and quietly demanding that he kiss her again. That was physical. That was present and entirely alive, entirely here and entirely close. Entirely something she remembered. She didn’t need to see him through drooping eyelids to know he was here. Here today, here tomorrow, and here for as long as she needed him to be.

The hilarity of urging him to make love to her on a rooftop (a hard, rather uncomfortable rooftop when clothes begun to shed and bodies were being pushed to the ground) was entirely present, and she spared many a laugh and a smile and a mild cringe of unwelcome pain. A rooftop was, perhaps, not ideal for lovemaking. But Nigel was. And this moment, frozen in time, most certainly was.

She didn’t really say anything, preferring to speak only with her actions rather than words. Guiding him, taking him in her arms, kissing his jaw and throat tenderly with increasing fevered desire. Speaking with her body, whispering with every bat of her eyelashes and hushed sigh. Smiling and wanting to cry all at once. Feeling. It was wonderful and  _ entirely beautiful _ to be alive.

___

The healing caress seems to fill the dark corners of his world as her return brims him whole, even in the midst of the slanting horizon that continues to darken as fireflies scatter above the vast sky; save the white light that continues to whirl as all of his senses avalanche onto her. His frantic breaths wind around the chambers of his heart and his gaze fuzzies over. The loneliness, even when her presence had been with him at all times used to feel so empty, the door shut right in front of him as it slapped his cheeks in deafening silence. Pouring emotions suffocated him until now and the moisture streaking onto his protruding cheekbones prove that the  _ sorrowfulness _ , the  _ bittersweetness _ and faded memory of her  _ corporeality _ returns onto him as a purifying, renewing rain. 

With his heart skipping beat in a  _ thunderous _ roar, he advances yet again, this time with more force as his mind takes a snapshot of this treasured moment. A breathed life shines through the cracks of his darkened niches as the roof buzzes with pouring rain. Before it fleetingly passes through the web of his fingers, as his emotions set free to flare through the length of his spine in waves of electric energy. The tip of his tongue carries the fueling embers as his breaths fluttering flame, haloing against her porcelain flesh. 

The pulsation of the city drowns in the lashing pitter-patter of the streaks, as his head turns to void.  _ There was nothing else to think of.  _ Only echoing thumps and sweet whispers bubble through every pore of him as he breathes life once again.  _ How he wished he could savor her whole yet again. _ She was like that whirling scent of coffee beans penetrating through the morning air;  _ small, resilient, bitter but ever-so fragrant. _ As their accumulation of life itself was an embodiment of bittersweetness, it simulated all the same. If he could ever control the intensity of both bitterness and sweetness in their lives as he deemed fit, without letting that calming comfort and a source of potent energy go down in the drain…. but the unpredictability of life had him to tiptoe over the edge, trying to hold himself steady. 

His body melts through her as trembling fingertips hastily spilling their garments off, his eyes are too fascinated and ensorcelled by what lurks beneath the weight of her clothing. Too busy swallowing her whole to make a retreat. He would adapt, contort and become  _ malleable _ to her form as their flesh slap against the wall. Letting his mind guide the somatic response as it begins to twist and vortex. Fingers weaved and muscles singing aria as they become conducive to his soaring passion, he lets the gravitational force do the work as it would transcribe as his fingers delineate her in whole. 

____

Taking the plunge, Mischa was, in the beginning, taught with anxiety and a lingering sense of doom; she  _ wanted _ this, needed it for herself and for nobody else, not Nigel, and certainly not the unnamed man who’s lifeless gaze still made her want to vomit in her sleep. She wanted to enjoy this again, and for the first moment or so, it was difficult. Worries that had never been present, a feeling of  _ innocence lost _ so to speak. A metaphorical sense of purity that she hated even feeling needed exist in the first place. There was no purity, no lack of self; there was only  _ her _ . What she believed, who she loved, who she felt; that was her being, that was of which the stars in her veins knitted together to create the sense of self that had been ripped away countless times only to be painstakingly rebuilt again.

_ Her choice to open her body and mind was one she made for herself.  _ She wouldn’t let  _ men, _ pigs, nor kings of pigs, nor any other abhorrent  _ creature _ that dared call itself human invade her again. Physically and mentally, her body and mind  _ belonged to her _ from now until the earth would reclaim her for itself once again. Her choices, her beauty, what she had to offer to the world…the only one who mattered to have any say in what she gave and what she withheld was the man in her arms. And it was her choice to give him a say in this decision, just as she would help build and rebuild him in return.

It was mental pain, even an unrecognizable physical pain that she was unaccustomed to, but welcomed nonetheless. She could feel herself sharpen, tighten, grow bolder in a burst of light and rainfall that wet her hair and skin, trickling down her exposed belly and face. She could feel drips of water from Nigel’s hair on her forehead and in the wetness of his mouth, physical sensations that molded into emotional ones as she clung tighter and tighter, both to him and this feeling of rebirth and renewal that echoed in every sigh and whisper of his name.

___

To him, all of life was about  _ rearranging _ a few simple ideas, in order of most importance to least and it was combinations of all things, mostly of art.  _ A lie, and the truth that made sense.  _ He could be lying to himself right now and bend over backward to fit everything that happened to them into something that could make more sense; in other words,  _ twists _ and  _ distortions _ were involved in order to fit what he thought should be there. 

_ And no aspects of their shared life had been simple.  _

How many times he had felt empty, but not numb as the hollows of barrenness cracked and widened as his unnoticed life would pass right by him, as it continued with no living sensation. Breathing, but not  _ perceiving _ . Now that continuation of merging of the hearts are reflected upon their irises as he embodies her entirety with glistening honey. The  _ melancholic _ prussian blue that seeps upon the distant horizon now overwhelms with ever-warming red ochre, as his golden skin embodies and radiates through the lashing rain as a fuel-depraved fire still whirls and curls. As he re-memorizes how wind blows her hair, how his lips curl like the edge of the blooming petal as fingers close around her sternum, discarding the plastered garments that prevent him from facing with every inch of the curve, shadow, the in and out of her body as he turns into a  _ mapmaker _ . Combining both  _ aestheticism _ and mapping coordinates. 

A cold, frightening feeling still lingers all over his body like a wet blanket, yet its edges merge fuzzily into the tumultuous clouds hanging overhead as no amount of rainwater would pierce through him in his heart’s desire. Engulfed with charge, his hazel sweeps along in a stark stroke as he sinks himself into the  _ tremulous _ ,  _ irresistible _ heat of her. Vortexing and losing the sense of self as everything unfurls like snuffed film out of his head. Their coalesced forms become the high current, drowning the buzzing whispers surrounding them. In his mind, they are congratulatory confetti upon their reunion, both mind and body. 


	21. Chapter 21

As she holds him against her, she grows needier, hungrier, wanting more than he was giving and more than she could ever receive in one, fanatic burst. Rainfall pooled around them, causing her to shiver. Goosebumps trickled up her arms and legs as she wrapped herself around him. Her veins erupted into fire and icy twinges through her skin, filling her with ecstasy in his presence. Something about this was medicinal, entirely electric, entirely fulfilling in the singular moment of joy.

No words, only hushed whimpers and utterances of delight and pleasure, drowned out by the gentle rain that cooled their skin and made her shiver. She’d be muddy and her hair would be caked with dirt, but even has harsh as the rooftop was against her skin, the sensation was welcomed without a doubt in Mischa’s mind. Beside them, their weapons laid forgotten on the cement ground, shattered remains of the glass bottles tinkling in the rain. 

When she climaxed, a short, choked whimper met with an arching of her back, fingers wound through his hair, his lips on her throat and his hands on her waist. She wondered if this would be it; if she would break, shatter underneath him to never reform again. It would be welcomed, to perish with the happiness she held within her, solidified in the most beautiful moment she had experienced in an eternity.  _ It had only been a week.  _ A week lost on her. On him. On fear and repression and shame that had set her back a lifetime.

She would remember this. She promised this to herself; this among every beautiful moment they would share. Even if they lived an eternity, or grew apart in some horrid, perverted act of fate, she would remember.

_ I promise. I promise. I promise. _

___

His broad six-feet of entirety shines with sincerity as it curves over the instrument of his ever-encompassing serenade, like a flower bending in the wind. His frantic breaths winding and weaving around her until they lay over him like a net, reverberating through his fluttering muscles. In the midst of such rapturous heat engulfing him, he almost forgets to breathe as his movement becomes like a guitar music; the plucking of strings, ringing like solemn church bells as the tones echoed all around from the core. Melodic lines, chords and conducted harmonies, generated by their elevating ripples, becoming high tides. Varying in dense progressions of chords as it becomes even more so mellow, clear and perfect. 

With a bundle of emotion charged behind his clear hazel, the sunlight within him threatens to burst and explode as fluttering embers discharge with such exquisite spark; agglomerated by contractions, then petrification of her muscles, clenching around him with such a force. 

The burner phone rings, once, twice. His imminent release shimmers through him, splitting him in half as the universe pulls upon them, a masterpiece disintegrating into individual strokes. The strips of poured emotion exploding into unconnected fragments as its latent energy, dissipating into space itself. 

The phone’s screen flicks with urgency and he becomes the statue of that very fortified moment. His brain soaring its flight as the moment of blinding white swells him whole. Counterfeit to his imminent, such morose fate. The present was damned by his fate and this exquisite daydream is about to crush upon a raptorial sliver of basilisk gaze. Shaking with annoyance and stress, devious lips twisted like serpents. 

His heart lies a gladiatorial arena and he plummets headfirst into a brimming milky way full of nurturing elixir, as immaculate as that cling-wrap dress. Until it shreds into pieces, talon-like claws ravaging through the flesh as his view tinges with raining blood. 

___

_ Rainfall. _

Trickling down from Nigel’s nose and hair and onto her nose and lips, feeling it soak her hair and skin. Her fingertips had begun to prune. Even with Nigel enclosed in her small frame, she was growing cold. Regardless, she could have remained there indefinitely. Or at least, so she thought. She  _ was  _ growing quite chilly now that the wind was picking up. Mischa smiled and placed a tender kiss to his mouth as his phone began to go off, laughing as she rolled over to gather her wet clothes.

“I think we’re both due for a warm bath,” she said. She eyed his expression carefully, sensing something was wrong. “That isn’t fucking Darko, is it?” Her expression dropped, scowling as she held her wet clothes against her chest. _ Reality check, _ she thought. They still had adult lives to live. Overworked, adult lives. “I’m glad I’ve never met him. I suppose you should call him back once we have dry clothes on.” She hurried back inside as thunder rolled across the sky.

“I really wish you’d find another job,” she murmured. She hurried to their room, slipping into a pair of pajamas that were dry, and most importantly, warm. Mischa wanted nothing more than to just relax with him on the couch, perhaps find something they could both enjoy on the television, pretend that they weren’t as screwed up as she felt. She felt better. Cleaner. More in control of her thoughts and actions, perhaps even more so than before the incident itself.

“If I could give him a piece of my mind…” She eyed Nigel with frustration and sadness. “Trust me. I would. Call him back to get it over with.”

___

The thought would always hurt him. It keeps seeping into his veins, one potent drop at the time, agglomerating both the petrification and surge of pounding within the singing veins. Still  _ overbrimming _ with rapturous orgasm, his heartbeat continues to ricochet off the inner cranium as both the warning signal as his veins turn from the color of chaotic red ochre to melancholic prussian blue. This is the world he had built up, where his presence upon the obsidian night pours endless sparks from the firework, expanding like the galaxy to fill his innate nature; there’s nothing inherently bad about this, yet that would be the dystopia he would get used to living. 

Still meditating in the chamber of his heart before it lifts up to the air and begin to sweep down in the imminent reality, the kiss serves as the violin’s crescendo, a time slip as his breaths scintillate with elasticity. 

_ The clock ticks _ , and he’s still carried upon an infinite jewel drops of seraphic essence and breeze of cosmic sedation. For the fleeting, the most briefest moment stretching into a realm of eternity, it boggles his mind that this lulling sensation brings such temporal relaxation, without all the burdens of humanity and faults in his act weighing him down. 

_ And for this moment, all is right in the world and he wouldn’t change a thing.  _

_ Another call from an unknown sender.  _ “Perhaps,” his wholesome entirety drains to be an empty vessel as he feels a little light-headed, as if he hadn’t occupying his own body and in denial of this actually not happening. In his futile defiance, he watches his feet stomp upon the indestructible mobile phone as he sweeps to gather his revolver and discarded clothes. 

“I fucking hope so,” that would be his answer to both of her questions. Perhaps Darko would slip into the fissures of the law to get him out of the country, or he would call it quits before everything snowballed into an irreparable monstrosity.

“You wouldn’t like Darko, fucking trust me, he’s a goddamn prick and the biggest self-assured fucking asshole you’ll ever come across.” Just as he pulls up a dry pair of lounge pants and idly wiping off his revolver, he detects an intruder’s presence, perhaps two or more. Solidified like a statue as his encompassing hazel radiates abundance of heat, he could feel the flush of his cheeks spread across his entire face. 

“Fuck, it’s way too late for that, where’s your damn gun? Stay out of this and hide, I’ll fucking deal with this.”


	22. Chapter 22

Sighing, Mischa wrinkled her nose in distaste at the man. She didn’t like the way his name sounded on her lips, didn’t like all the memories associated with his bar and his forceful work habits. This hadn’t been the first time she and Nigel had qualms over his work place; it was really the only time they ever argued.  _ Fucking Darko. _

“Honestly, that doesn’t surprise me. I want to help you find another job. Maybe tonight we can take a loot? Somewhere online, maybe?” Sighing, Mischa took his hands in her own and leaned against his chest. They had time, didn’t they? They had all the time in the goddamn world. Something was off, however. Perhaps it was an ingrained ability to detect danger at its core. But Mischa was certain she felt Nigel stiffen beneath her, his body suddenly taught and on-edge as if ready to ward off an impending attack. Mischa’s head shot up. His expression said it all.

_ Hide. _ No. No. Mischa was done running from the face of danger. She took a hurried step back, hand going to the gun on the table where it lay, unloaded and safe, when Nigel’s expression told her he was entirely too serious. Frozen and taught.  _ Something was happening.  _ No rest for the fucking weary, as far as she was concerned. 

“Nigel,  _ what the hell is going on?”  _ She stared at him, wide-eyed, gaze darting from him to the window and back to her gun again. “Is it police? Is this about the man you killed?” She wasn’t going to hide until she got answers, but she also wasn’t about to shoot at the goddamn Italian police force either. Regardless, she fumbled for the rest of the bullets and loaded the gun as Nigel began pushing the curtains aside. She stood, stiff in place with the gun in her hand, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Whatever was happening, she would be ready.

___

His hazel widens with urgency and his jaw sets tight as if he had just bitten through an electrical wire; bothered by his own statement uttered with disconcerting thoughts. Everything he does as he follows his instinctive, intuitive decisions, things seem to never go in the right direction. Somewhere in his bones and his taut lips, there’s  _ expectancy _ that things become so used to, everything unconventional becomes the norm. The lost love, the life’s path taking its ugly shifting as it accompanied with his ineloquence to accustom and adapt becomes like a  _ habitude _ he has to go through with every closed chapter of his book.

_ Too fucking late for that, too. _ He’s reached the point where his heart’s content refuses to accept exquisite happiness as how it should be deciphered; _ in full trust and acceptance. _ His heart is afraid, and everything blissful seems so far-fetched in this very moment. What could be a common state of mind could turn so foreign and unreachable. Yet, he would continue to remain his maverick habituation as he would embody a thunderstorm. A lightning that would strike and extend high over the skyscrapers; powerful and dangerous. Splendid in magnificent beauty, as well as to be feared. Like his own heart, thrumming to echo through his whole vessel and sometimes the onslaught of thought makes him to not remember how to breath quite right. He would never fully liberate from the slavery of his own  _ penchant _ ; too caught up in the darker side of the law, turning acanaceous, yet he’s absolutely devoted to set his world ablaze with the heat of things. 

_ But to what purpose? He was about to lose someone that was his home.  _

Empty casings removed and his dexterous fingers quicken along with the heat of his soul, egging him on. Words themselves become scalding fragments of shrapnel, ruthless and merciless in their projected path as it devours him whole. He wouldn’t go down in this wretched twitch of heat agglomerating beneath his ribs. “That fucking abuser wasn’t the only one I killed while we settled here,” words further become the catalyst that would seep into his veins and course through his very being, tearing at his brittle bones. “And the one… I killed at the club when you were fucking violated happened to be the right hand of the powerful drug cartel and of course, that didn’t fucking sit well with either that motherfucker or fucking Darko, so I’m about to sent somewhere, I have a few ideas where, but I’m not entirely sure.” 

In absolute vigilance as his senses hone down to microscopic levels, his super predator instincts were inciting much-needed adrenaline as he surveils the area. Fatigue overwhelms with beams of promise, that sliver of hope he would clutch with all of his might, even when things looked grim; he would be washed away on a broken shore and would take his plunge upon the bleak black hole. Never he’d feel defeated even in the midst of time when granules of salt would rub onto his freshly opened wounds. 

As soon as a head of a suit-clad individuals peep over the corner of the vibrantly painted wall, he takes a piercing shot with fastidiousness, managing to draw a bit of blood as the bullet grazes upon the left bicep of the man. 

___

_ Are you fucking kidding me? _

Perhaps that wasn’t the most appropriate  _ first thought _ to cross her mind when they were actually being  _ shot at _ , by Nigel’s boss, his  _ goddamn coworkers _ nonetheless. Anger, initially, crossed her mind. Frustration that Nigel kept secrets from her, disbelief that this was his chosen line of work, although, perhaps it wasn’t really as insane as Mischa was making it out to be. Nigel had an affliction for violence. He always had, for as long as Mischa could remember. She had so many questions, endless questions that couldn’t be answered while their lives were on the line.

But anger wasn’t going to help them. There was an appropriate time to be angry with him; now wasn’t it. Mischa would be dammed if she decided now, of all times, to sit on the sidelines and let him die when she had a weapon clutched firmly in her hand and a reason to fight.  _ A reason to be brave.  _ Even when she felt so helpless and frightened. Ducking behind the kitchen table, Mischa fired her gun, managing to graze the shorter man’s shoulder. Triumphant, Mischa clenched her teeth and shot her gaze to Nigel who was intensely focused on the assault. He knew these men, and now they were doing their jobs as they ha been told; cover the tracks. Nigel’s murder of the man in the club had gained too much attention from rival gang’s and the police, and now they meant to take him and flee.

And of course, he told her none of this. But there was a right time to be angry. Now, Mischa was scared. But she would not be angry.

“I’m guessing we can’t – “ Mischa was cut off with a yelp as a bullet flew past her shoulder, nearly grazing her skin. She fired, once, and then again, before continuing with a tremble in her voice.

“There’s no reasoning with these people, is there? They’ll either take you alive or kill you trying.”

_ Goddammit, Nigel, _ she thought.  _ This could have been prevented. _ But they would find a way out.  _ They always found a way out. _

____

_ Was he ever going to be freed by the incorrigible draw that continued to be attracted towards the anghising dream? _ Even when their intricate cobweb image of their love would light his darkest corners of his mind, the depth of the darkness, and thrill that one day, he might just dissolve into the rain of blood, soaked upon the earth that would make him to never breath again had hurtled him in captive. Even with the illuminating light present upon the room, too blissfully breathtaking and beautiful, now the thought that their corporeality could fade and disintegrate away as their forged soul and soldered flesh rips, tears as blood and brittle bones turn shrapnels and paint upon the exquisite dream, failed to be unfurled with a click of a finger. 

He could feel Mischa’s anger bleed away as emotions pour from both sides; the lost despair sends chills throughout his body and it makes his unpooled mind to tangle. The bullets rip through like whiplash, the menacing projectile echoing through the air as it splinters the back wall. Surveillant pair of hazel stabs with too much thought, such raw silence, the unpredictability of the assailants’ movements as he hadn’t familiarized with their stances and composure in brawl and shootouts. With every glimmer of light and faintest sounds emitted from both the ground and air, his eyes peered deeper, desperate to decipher their actions. 

“I wasn’t expecting your real-life demonstration would come this fucking soon,” like if he had just ran a sprint, the shortness of his breath immediately lodges in his throat as he manages to shoot one down with a bull’s eye. Through the cacophonous strident ringing off his eardrums, he would only focus on the exhilaration of his concentrated thought, as he immerses himself into the depth of the blood, dribbling onto the carpet like dense ink drops in clear water. 

“C’mon, keep your arms straight, don’t let your eyes waver.”  _ Shootouts _ , the determination and desperation were the key, and he was absolutely determined to break all of those wings, so to speak and render them useless. They were fucking burdens, an extra set of weight to keep him off from things that mattered, which built his entirety. While his ambivalent realm had kept him to slip into the certitude of darkness,  _ he would redeem himself,  _ kill them all and invest in something so much more than only maintaining the living memory of their anguished past to become painfully somatic yet again.  

Dodging and ducking his head as another bullet scrapes through and leaves a bullet hole upon his shirt, his damp hair flops and drips water. Think of it more as a spontaneous adventure more than imagining them drifting away into the other realm. “It’ll take more than a few fucking guns in the arms and hands of a fucking amateur. Let’s make a beeline for that balcony, we should be able to get away relatively unscathed.” 


	23. Chapter 23

“I’m trying,” she murmured. It was just like target practice, wasn’t it? Arm straight, deep breaths (in and out, in and out), hand steady. No need to think about these particular targets were were moving. Not to mention, ones that were trying to kill them or upturn their lives into another wreck of turmoil. Mischa wasn’t going to allow it to happen again. She was frightened and afraid and a rising panic was building in her chest, but nonetheless Mischa remained focused.  _ Survival mode _ . 

They wouldn’t make it, would they? They would run and they would die. She could only hope that she would go first, hoping that the next time they saw one another would not be bloody and broken and helpless on the ground. If, indeed, an afterlife did exist, she would look forward to seeing him again, as she didn’t plan on looking back. Gripping the gun tightly in her hand, Mischa darted from behind the table, firing three shots at the doorway before practically stumbling into the living room, making a break for the fire escape. Havoc ensued,  time seemed to operate in slow-motion , she ran, and ran, and suddenly a sharp, ripping pain tore across her thigh and she went sprawling onto the ground, her gun flying from her hand and skidding across the room. She was bleeding, but she couldn’t get up. 

She had hoped that bullet would have killed her. Because if she was dead, that meant Nigel was too. But she was very much alive, which still meant Nigel could be dead, or worse. Her breath caught in her chest as she turned around. A man, short with incredible beady, dark eyes was looking at her like she were some fussy nuisance that he had at last taken care of. She knew without asking that this man’s name was Darko. She tried to speak, but she could only utter a grunt of pain.

“He needs to come with us now, you see,” he said matter-of-factly, as if explaining the concept to a child. Mischa reached for her gun, only to find it out of her reach. Nigel was kicking at several of the men, one holding a syringe, and Mischa yelled out in protest.

“He made a very silly mistake and now our entire operation is in jeopardy. I’m sure you two were…close. But he won’t be coming back.”

___

_ If he could ever be in an alternate universe, where he’s not overwhelmed by unnerving fear. _ He’s not the most stalwart, steady type with brimming courage where he moves with such a rollick, who is fearless and determined as his brain continues to get fuzzy with such repeated instances.  _ What if he could lose her in a heartbeat, where the fate turns his face to ash, as their house burns down tonight? _ All he wanted to do was to hold each other under the moon and find stardusts in each other’s eyes, but if both fleeing away from the shootout or valiantly returning fire both earned him an imminent death, then he would move through the air with a spark of electricity clinging onto his heart, along with a movement like the crisp air, licking over and round the curve of the building. 

As their worlds start to crumble down one by one with chipped splinters and earsplitting bursts of exchanged rapid fires and his own perceivance of the previous events unfurl in a haste. There were too many people who would make an effort to bring them down and he very much knew this secret, hanging by the thread and the lifeline already unknotting and loosening had been his damn fault. He wasn’t going to let himself be one of them who would separate each other. Yet, he can’t seem to shake the feeling that they would both break through the ceiling; another chapter sealed closed by such unwelcomed vicissitudes of life. 

_ What if they were colors, a dramatically different shades in the opposite spectrum, running toward each other in the whole world as their canvas, as every moment takes their unique shapes and every memory paints itself in their own distinctive colors? _ As his own fingers tightly clutch and tug her upon his arms and protecting her as if his body had been an aegis as she becomes the target upon the standing man by the tall stool near the kitchen table, Nigel returns the bullet as the scent of blood leaves a permanent mark upon a snapshot of the moment. His heart squeezes and writhes inside and the world distorts and slants beneath his footsteps. The man goes down with a muffled scream as the bullet penetrates his carotid at an angle, spraying a firework of droplets upon the adjacent wall as the blood gravitates down. He thinks, h _ e’d give her a million of sunrise and sunset if the attempt had been nullified _ . 

“What if we just fucking disappeared, you won’t ever hear from me ever again,” with a squeeze of his diaphragm, his panting breath warms against the crook of Mischa’s neck. “C’mon, be fucking reasonable, it was my sister who was about to be fucking rap-” Too charged with emotion as his lips form stories of that fateful day, he fails to register Darko moving behind him like a coiled snake beneath a pile of camouflaged foliage of their terra-cotta colored stucco walls.

The last second of his clock ticks down as the beveled edge finds a protruded vein on his neck. The unspoken words clumsily falls beneath his lips and all he could emit out is a wet gasp, because panic is virulent and his body reacts if he had fast-acting poison in his vein. Fingers clasping around Mischa’s wrist, then falls limp as the Darko’s last words ring like a thunderstorm. “Time to go, big boy.”

____

_ Wait. Wait. Please, just WAIT – _

Mischa was screaming soundlessly. Her hand clutched her hip, blood pooling between her trembling fingers as she dragged herself to her feet, only to have her knees buckle. She collapsed to the floor, bruising her knees, as two men hoisted Nigel up by his arms. He was falling unconscious. She was ready to plead, bargain, give anything she was able to give. However she needed to give it. Anything to prevent what she was slowly realizing would be very, verypermanent.

What  _ was _ this? How was any of this fair? 

Darko was emotionless and still. Mischa managed words. Where were they taking him? What was the meaning of this? Why couldn’t she come? But Darko rolled his eyes. Brushed her off like an irritating insect, something to be pushed aside. Useless. Unwanted. Not necessary or important.  _ Irrelevant, _ as Mischa’s world slowly came to an end. They were taking him somewhere. Somewhere Darko wouldn’t disclose, even as she pushed herself up to her feet and lunged herself at him. Tried to claw at him, push the gun away despite several warning shots, only to be shoved down again like a pitiful animal. Mischa would have fought, would have  _ died. _ But the pain was too much. The pain was saving her life in exchange for Nigel’s.

They weren’t going to kill him. He was too valuable for that. An asset. They would take him to some far corner of the earth where they could rebuild their operation from scratch. Mischa watched as he was taken away. Watched until he was gone. Watched until the pain faded enough for her to lurch to her feet and drag herself to the window, affirming the fact that indeed, he was  _ gone. _

She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream, didn’t break glass or shatter the windows as she was doing so in her head. Didn’t cut herself open until she bled until she had nothing more to bleed. But indeed, he was gone. And it was very likely he wasn’t coming back. Perhaps she would have cried, had it happened slowly. Had they had time to say goodbye. Had they, maybe, had told one another that they loved each other one, last time. Made promises that wouldn’t be kept. But she didn’t cry. There was no emotion to be felt. Only a familiar emptiness, a mechanism against the extremes of her turmoil. A wall. She felt nothing.

And over the weeks, Mischa would search for signs. Infiltrate drug dens. Ask local club owners. Nobody knew who Darko was. Even certain drug lords that she met, cocaine dealers and meth cookers, had no idea who Darko was. He was a ghost. A series of dead ends. A man who did not exist. With his departure from Italy, he had taken his entire cartel with him and left no mark or footprint behind. If anybody had heard of him, she suspected they had been tipped off to cleanse him from their minds for good.

He had disappeared and taken everything he had needed with him.

And then, when she realized that Nigel was truly gone, she wept.

__

There’s nothing quite like the moment when a sail splits through the wind and opens under it like legs of those fucking whores from the titty club. The suffocatingly moist, the onslaught of merciless and unforgiving air of the Mediterranean brings forth the inevitable surge;  _ the heralds of beginning of the new world where dystopian hierarchy ensues in all its shapes and possibilities. Where no ruled exist.  _ His only elixir is imagining their shared memories of phylactic medicine regenerating him whole as wafting memories within the clutches of his mind tighten around the recesses of his mind and the broken masquerade mask bleeding with his tenacity to  _ survive _ and  _ persevere _ . 

This is his true waking, and perhaps it had been what he sought after all those years, where he could unleash all the pent-up, coiled emotions with black coffee eyes and virulency embedded within those charged, diaphanous orbs. Except his heart had been aching with such pulsations no brawl or ruthless royal rumble would satiate his resounding anger. He might come across as particularly ruthless, aggressive and fiery individual who would embody the nature of fire in whole; his signature moves became unfurling symphony of pain, as he sacrifices his own corporeality in dripping blood and tears, where the absence of humanity clings onto him like an inescapable shackle. 

In his recurrent dreams, Mischa becomes a quintessential manifestation of an angelic nightingale, except her body is completely drenched by the bloody red sunset, making her silhouette to stand out in a dazzling cling-wrap of her ruined dress. That fleeting last dance, his fingers upon the sensual curve of her. Oh, how she shimmers beneath his all-encompassing gaze as his aching muscles unfurl as he stands tall, broad and marvelously handsome to accommodate her in such gallant manner. His whole gravitational universe he couldn’t ever fathom to break free of.  

_ Another day, another time _ , withstanding the test of time as he persists day by day; he casts a spell towards himself,  _ repeatedly _ , when he feels like crumbling. Time was only an illusion and his ruinous addiction had brought him here. _ Nothing else _ . He could be just taking an ambulatory journey, utterly lost, instead of failing to sink to both of his knees as the world reduces into ashy graphite dusts and snuffed fire beneath the coals. 

Months pass and to mask his unique facade from the scrutiny of observant eyes, he is half-forced to ink himself on his left arm, an imbuing tribal flame tattoo along his charcoal sleeveless shirt that would mark him with a thick coat of chained armor and hide the crude graffiti of numerous scars, inflicted upon such tormentation. His own body turns into a fine instrument of war; as scabs fall like deciduous leaves of fall and his inclination for love turns him to stand upright, even when he’s pushed towards the knees and with his face shoved and pummeled towards the earth; it’s not the wet earth he associates with Mischa and his deceased brother, it’s as parched and barren as the chambers of his heart. 

He has no one to hold his hand and balance him a bit, to guide him and scoop him up when he falls half-unconscious. He still has the capacity for ravenous hunger and desire; he just needs Mischa to release those when the time comes. When he’s allowed to recharge his rudimental energy, to gaze into the salve of her peering eyes as the memory continues to sew patches onto his subconscious. 

One day, his body feels as if disintegrating, flayed by fragmented strands, along with the fading colors of his skin. His view slants, distorts, sinks beneath the horizon and completely slips away from his vivid recollections as he greets the familiarity of comatose. Through coal breaths,  _ intermittent and weak _ , sand veins which threaten to burst open with  _ dehydration _ , yet he’s swollen all over, painted blotches trailing his torso like ornaments. Spatting acid blood over the cot as his fingers limply hang by the edge of the bed, the web of his weak fingers penetrate upon the invisible hands of the other, which seems to gnaw apart in small fibers, like holes that was making him subterfuge his fragile heart. 

Through stinging salty tears flowing like a stream upon the curtain of his thick lashes, he captures despair, as his pulsating heart squeezes out the words uttered so many times through the creases of his pillows.  _ Mischa _ . 


	24. Chapter 24

There isn’t a passage of time between  _ then _ and now. Mischa kept track of time through when essays were due, when she was tired enough to sleep, when she was alert enough to drag herself from the confines of her bed that was too large and go to work in a hollow place. She smiled at the patrons, dutifully put books away, paid rent on time. In her free time, she studied. She had put her education on hold since moving to Italy, and now it was all she thought about. When she could graduate, when she could receive her RN license, when she could leave this terrible place that reminded her of death, even though nobody had died within these walls.

Policemen came and go. They promised to look for her missing brother. She knew they’d never find him. They didn’t know who “Darko” was either.

Had more than one year actually passed? Or had it just felt that way? Mischa couldn’t tell. Occasionally, she received letters from Margot. The same, beautiful Margot who had saved her and Nigel’s life, even if perhaps it had all been for nothing at all. It took a while for Mischa to build up the courage to tell her that he was gone, and never coming back. When Margot invited her to come stay with her, she accepted. And within months, she went from a small apartment where she was barely making ends meet to the most lavish home that put even the Lecter castle to shame.

Mischa found it funny how she and Margot had both lost their brothers. Something in her had died that day. When Mason died, Margot felt like she could finally live. They weren’t one for long conversations. But when Mischa arrived at Muskrat farm, a strange place that once held the worst of Mischa’s fears, she felt oddly at home. Margot hugged her, and in time, she kissed her too.

In time, Mischa received her license. She was able to work for herself, was able to  _ see _ the vast expanse of opportunity laid out before her. There was something irreplaceable that had withered away in Nigel’s absence, an openness and willingness to be free and seek out means of pleasure and delight in her life, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t continue to reach her dreams.

She joined Doctors Without Borders. Said goodbye to Margot and her beautiful home, and thanked her for everything she had done for her and Nigel in the past. Told her that she loved her, as she would always love her in a very strange way that Mischa would never know how to identify. And when she would arrive in South Africa, tending to wounded children and adults alike, she would hear the whispers of the Eastern European white man who fought his way to the top of the ring. And she wondered, wondered, wondered…

_ Nigel, is that you? _

A call into the void, with no answer but in her dreams where they would be reunited again, upon the most beautiful ballroom she could only ever conjure up as a small child. Taking his hand in some ceremony of connection, feeling his fingers wrapped around hers. She would smile, and so would he, and she would remember that he was still here, if not in the way that she wanted. A reminder that, if not today, not tomorrow, or maybe even if not for many years, she would be okay.

_ Till death do us part. _

_ Goodbye. _

___

The stifling sun of the south side of the Mediterranean bakes through the fissured layer of the sun-cracked soil and as Nigel lay entrapped in the shadows of his livid bruises, unlikely frigidness and unfathomable gray wafts into him along with the fuzzy whispers of dark suspicions. He was sure he had scented the familiar scent of wilting rose petals, even when that little pleasure had been taken away from him a few days ago. How many nights he had dragged his ravaged body in search for what could embody her in such flawless manner? Within that moment, the desolate dry whips of air became the wet breaths he had breathed upon her gossamer skin, as fibers of his torn sleeveless shirt threaded with the overhanging sun. 

Now he was the swelling moon over the humble tent, as he clutched the withering bundles of vivid pink within his torn palms, as the sheltering clouds accumulate within him. That sensation alone is enough to have his malleable ribs to threaten to expand and crack. 

He didn’t need his smokes for his lungs to catch up on that imminent disease; they are already turning gray and festering with bleeding memories of her. Instead of stale reek of smoke, he would recurrently envisage the ecliptic body of hers, as his own charged hazel would sweep through the slender and elongated torso of hers, morphing in such fluidity beneath his coppery fingers. Flushing, blossoming like the bud yearning to invite and accommodate him in whole, as he plummets into a  _ descending _ , clashing hook of wave. 

Instead of such exquisite and tremendous quivering of flesh and muscles beneath the melody, echoing his name in synchronistic symphony, his form cries out in tormentation, in crude recollection of leaking blood and collected tears in absolute silence. 

The emotional flood overrides that of the unforgivable, merciless earth, as he engages in as many battles as possible. Even when he’s scraped, hurled across the empty chariots upon another, his brain dashed out against the ground where he lets the swelled anger towards Darko and himself become over-brimmed with the crimson discharge. As he lets himself peeled off another layer upon another, he lets the ethereal muscle memories of fluid become his emollient in the midst of well-deserved solace, upon the midst of hellfire. As long as his dreams don’t deceive him, never coming back to watch him flake apart like scattered mosaics. Flooding, fever dream of where time is only an illusion and his benumbed senses discharge to metamorphose into something else.  

And when the sunlight within him seems to explode one day, with his deep, steady lashes framing them becomes those scattered petals, creased with their fragile skins transforming into the vessel of everlasting milky way upon his plummeted descent, then he’s conquered by erosion as the view of the world becomes a continued static. The edge of the arena stretches along with his motionless shadow, reaching arms embracing him as he slowly drifts beneath the sky, embodying the color of the rusted steel. 

_ Letting go, but holding onto the sound of pulsating music that penetrates through his sensory deprivation. _

And he witnesses her celestial form as a slow ebb of his lungs fill entirely with her. As an imperceptible sigh abates his form, reduced into a crumbled leaf beneath his own palms, through the scrambled brains, lips etch a faint stretch of crooked grin. Knowing he still breathed and embodied her in living memory, he would still rapturously embezzle from his giant metropolitan hub of their tumultuous, yet euphoric rollercoaster of memories, of a lifetime. Then he could expire like colliding star, the lone figure stumbling along the shore with a solemn limerence.  


	25. Chapter 25

… _ And she’s happy, isn’t she? This is happiness, isn’t it? People learned to live with a void in their soul. They learned to mend, learned to stitch themselves back together even after they’ve been torn in every way imaginable. Stripped of identity, stripped of ownership, stripped of humanity. People get up. People heal. They live.  _

And that’s what she did. Halfway across the globe, tending wounded patients she did not know, seeing them smile, her golden hair such a strange, foreign concept to the people who have lived here their whole lives. Dark skinned boys and girls, men and women, all whom had stories and places and families that Mischa took in with awed fascination. Many thanked her for her work, and she thanked them for their stories. Thanked them for her sense of self. Helping people was  _ good work. _

She learned to regain her ownership. Her sense of self. Her identity that made Mischa Evalina Lecter who she was, before Nigel was gone, before her assault, before Muskrat Farm…before Hannibal, mother, and father were taken from her. She was entirely her own being, even though every molecule in her body ached to have Nigel back where he belonged. In her arms, in  _ her life. _ She could live, couldn’t she? She could be good; for him, for  _ herself. _

She could only hope she would never grow weary of her work. The harsh reality of seeing death at her fingers in this foreign hospital was a reminder of her own mortality. Sometimes, children didn’t make it, and she thanked the stars that she had, at least, not become one of them. She had grown ill when her parents did, and survived. She had witnessed her dearest brother be murdered right before her eyes. She had been torn up, beaten, cut into, ravaged, and had her broken into irreparable shards. Some children on the hospital beds didn’t make it, but she had. That was something to be thankful for.

It was the last day of her placement, and she was weary, being mindful that when she believed she saw the familiar broad shoulders and tussle of brown hair, that her eyes could easily deceive her. One more patient before she would be sent to the beaches of Ecuador, a light-skinned man with hazel eyes and a gruff, eastern-European accent that had a strange tint of Italian. One look, before she would burst apart into laughter and tears, in that she knew who it was on this particular bedside. 

Perhaps it was, indeed, until death that they would one day part, but she was not dead, nor was the man on the bed beside her, sleeping soundly with a wound that needed stitching, a shoulder that needed her gentle hand, and eyes that met hers upon awakening that would heal a broken heart for ages.

So indeed, she was alive. But strangely, she was also home, in this strange place across the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAD to make them reunite and thank you for reading! This has been one of the most thrilling, emotion-charged ride of a lifetime for both ends.


End file.
